
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 

Chap.’IE’ZJSCopyright No. 

Siift if , E 55 5 F 

UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 







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A FARRAGO 



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A FARRAGO 


MAX EHRMANN 



CAMBRIDGE, MASS. 

CO-OPERATIVE PUBLISHING COMPANY 


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2nd COPY, ^ 

^Q98. I ^ 0 q q. 


£D. 




Copyrighted i8g8 

By The Co-operative Publishing Company 


My Dear Brother Albert : — 

Here is a sentence from Lamb about 
some lines written under a “full length” of David 
Garrick in the Abbey : “It would be an insult to 
my readers’ understanding to attempt anything like a 
criticism on this farrago of false thoughts and non- 
sense.” Sometimes I have felt like saying just this 
about the volume before you. 

The desire to make a book has at last overcome 
me, and this farrago is the result. Where I have 
been cheerful, you may attribute it to good diges- 
tion, if you like ; and where I have been gloomy, to 
anything else that pleases you. 

I hope, as you doubtless will, that my subsequent 
books may have a better claim to merit than this 
first adventure, which, in remembrance of your con- 
stancy, despite the many tricks time has played me, 

I Affectionately Inscribe to You, 

M. E. 


Parker House, Boston, 1898. 


CONTENTS 


The Blood of the Holy Cross . . 9 

The Mystery of Love . . . .111 

Why Some Schoolmistresses Don’t Marry 129 
Mary i 43 

In the House of Contentment . . . i 57 

At Commencement Time . . . .169 

A Few First Impressions of Harvard . 187 
Prose-Poetry and Symbolism . . *199 


Thb Old Man’s Answer 
What The Night Said 
The Light Within 


/ 


THE BLOOD OF THE HOLY CROSS 


“ The flash a7td outbreak of a fiery mhid 
A savageness in unreclaimed bloodT 


Hamlet. 


THE BLOOD OF THE HOLY CROSS 


1 . 

H enry van ABERING I met at 
Harvard College. He was tall and 
slender, decidedly dark in complexion, — 
almost copper colored, — had a large thin 
nose, small bright eyes, high cheek bones, 
and very black hair. He walked, I imagine, 
somewhat as Abraham Lincoln, with his 
arms hanging at full length by his sides, and 
with long springy steps ; but with more 
vivacity. Had it not been for his excellent 
taste in matters of dress, and very gentle 
breeding, he would not have been the most 
pleasing sight to behold. He came from 
New York City, where his father, in his life- 


12 


A Farrago 


time, had inherited and amassed a consider- 
able fortune, and where his mother and sister 
were still living. 

I had come out from Boston, where I had 
tarried a few days, in order to get a room 
near the university for the year’s study. 
Van Abering attracted me, for in my diffi- 
culties in becoming properly enrolled as a 
student, he had been of no little service, and 
was ever ready with suggestions and sympa- 
thy. I broached the subject of getting a 
suite of rooms .between us, which was agree- 
able to him ; and out we started to ransack 
Cambridge for suitable quarters. Every- 
where in the windows bright placards were 
calling loudly for tenants, ‘‘Rooms for stu- 
dents,” “Rooms for students.” We hardly 
knew which way to turn ; for since we were 
a few days earlier than most of the students, 
the field was ours, and we were determined 
to be satisfied with only the best. After 
loitering about the Harvard Square street car 
station for a while, Van Abering said, 
“Come, let us go down this way.” We went 


The Blood of the Holy Cross 1 3 

down a narrow side street, passed the Hasty 
Pudding clubhouse, and stopped before an 
immense frame building that seemed with- 
out end and occupied almost exclusively 
by Rooms for students” which tiptoed 
to the sills and peeped from nearly every 
window. 

I have always lived in the other direc- 
tion,” said he, ringing the bell, we ’ll try 
this end this year.” 

An untidy middle-aged lady — woman, I 
mean — came round the side of the house, 
wiping her hands on her apron, as if pre- 
paring to embrace us, and wearing a smile 
that would unarm any unsophisticated youth. 
‘‘ Good morning, gentlemen, good morn- 
ing.” 

“ Good morning,” we said. ‘‘ We are 
looking for rooms,” Van Abering continued, 
coolly, not responding to the woman’s smile, 
which with the next sentence elaborated and 
spread out over most of her face, showing 
her beautiful white teeth, lately from the 
dentist. 


14 


A Farrago 

Oh ! yes, yes ; we have plenty of them ; 
just step in.” 

At this point an unbeautiful young lady 
opened the door. One could tell from her 
smile that she was the woman’s daughter. 

Oh ! ” she shrieked, as we passed the door, 
‘‘you have got paint on you. What a pity 
— on your coat ! ” Taking hold of that por- 
tion of my attire and holding it before my 
eyes, she said, “ See ! — coming through the 
door. I’ll get some turpentine, and rub it 
off. I should have told you of the paint,” 
and she hurried off up stairs, singing like a 
jay bird in winter, — if you know how that 
is, — while the middle-aged woman began 
her speech to Van Abering about the merits 
of the house in general. 

The young lady returned almost instantly, 
and began to administer the oil to my coat. 
She exercised me there for quite a time (but 
what could I do } ), while her mother was 
saying to Van Abering : — 

“Now, this room, besides the conven- 
iences, has had distinguished occupants. Of 


The Blood of the Holy Cross i 5 

course you know Brown and Baley — they 
played on the foot-ball team last year. 
Prescott had that room over there ; he was a 
base-ball player ; he is in California now, and 
wrote me that he wants the room when he 
comes back. But I ’ll let you have Brown 
and Baley’s ; they were very prominent stu- 
dents.” Noting Van Abering’s expression- 
less face, she felt that she must play a 
different card. The room here,” pointing 
to one across the hall, this very room, was 
occupied by Robert Lincoln last year.” 

‘‘ What are you telling me ! ” said Van 
Abering, unpleasantly ; Mr. Robert Lin- 
coln graduated years ago.” 

No, no,” shouted the girl rubbing my 
coat, '‘only for a day — on a visit.” 

" Yes, only for a day,” echoed the mother, 
" I should have told you that ; I did n’t mean 
to deceive you about the length of time. It 
was only for a day — and a night, too, of 
course. O Robert Lincoln was a fine man ! 
This is the very room. He used to come 
out here in the hall and speak to — ” 


1 6 A Farrago 

‘‘Mr. Lincoln is no relative of mine/’ in- 
terrupted Van Abering. 

“ No, of course ; but he is a great man.” 

“These rooms will not do,” said Van 
Abering, warming somewhat. He was be- 
ing dreadfully bored. 

“ Oh ! Then come this way. Perhaps you 
do not admire Robert Lincoln. Here — 
what do say to this } Are you fond of Haw- 
thorne } The grandson of Nathaniel Haw- 
thorne ” . . . . They passed into the room, 
and I could not hear any more. 

“Why, it does n’t seem to come out,” said 
the girl. 

I had been smelling varnish all the while ; 
but the house just having been painted, I 
thought, would account for that. “ Let me 
see the bottle,” I said. 

The girl stopped rubbing, reflected a mo- 
ment, looked at the bottle, then turned and 
ran up stairs, shrieking, “It’s varnish, it’s 
varnish ! ” 

At that very instant, the old woman came 
hurriedly backing out of the room into which 


The Blood of the Holy Cross 1 7 

she had led Van Abering. She was pale as 
death and trembled from head to foot. Van 
Abering followed her a few steps, his face 
whiter than hers, his hands nervously open- 
ing and closing, and his eyes sparkling 
savagely. 

‘‘What do you take me for.^’' he roared 
loud enough to be heard over the whole 
house, “ Do you think T am a fool ! I am not 
bargaining for Lincoln or for Hawthorne’s 
grandson. I would n’t live in your house ! ” 

Several persons looked over the balus- 
trades of the upper stories to see what the 
trouble might be, and one of the servants 
ran into the hall. The old woman continued 
to back away until she was near me, when 
her daughter came running down stairs and 
stepped in front of her ; all the while Van 
Abering was still growling like something in- 
human. I took him by the arm and asked 
him to go away with me. As we passed 
through the door, he turned to the terror- 
stricken old woman and said, “You old hag ! ” 
He was almost frothing like a mad dog. We 


i8 


A Farrago 


walked two squares before he uttered a sen- 
tence. The expression in his face had not 
changed a jot. He looked more like a brute 
than a man. At length he said, I will see 
you tomorrow,” and turned the corner in an 
opposite direction. 

I was greatly discouraged all that day to 
know that I had fallen in league with one of 
so violent a temper. I thought he might 
have seen rather the humorous side of the 
situation, and asked the old woman if she 
had a room in which Shakespeare had eaten 
fish, or what the price of the rooms would 
be without the Lincoln tradition, which she 
might easily transfer to another suite. I 
meant to say to Henry Van Abering, when 
we met on the next day, that I wished him 
to relieve me. I feared he would take it 
unpleasantly ; but I did not want to link my- 
self for a year to a man of such a temper, 
since of that ingredient in character I feared 
I had a good supply myself. 

We met at Harvard Square next morning. 
His face had its normal expression again. 


The Blood of the Holy Cross 19 

He took my hand affectionately, and placing 
his left on my shoulder, said, I hope you 
will overlook what happened yesterday. I 
have already rented apartments, and you can 
send your baggage there at any time. I 
hope you will like the place.” There was 
that sort of look in his face that kept me 
from saying what I had intended. He seemed 
conscious of being burdened with something 
from which it was beyond his power to release 
himself ; and a kind of fatal melancholy in 
his countenance implored one to suffer him 
his misfortune. 


H. 

The house in which we found ourselves 
installed was the home of a pensioned naval 
officer, who in by-gone years had been deco- 
rated with many petty honors, but was now 
released from service on account of some 
optical defect. The mistress of the house 
was a majestic woman of about fifty. For 
all the world, she looked more like a lieutenant 
than her husband, who was small of stature. 


20 


A Farrago 


very gray, somewhat stooped, and had been 
evidently on the decline for some years. In 
domestic battles she was always victorious ; 
and these were not few, now that their means 
were reduced and they were compelled to let 
a portion of their house. Although half a 
century old, she was yet strikingly beautiful ; 
and had reigned in her social sets, in various 
parts of the world, for more than twenty 
years. 

We had a jolly lot of companions in this 
house. The rooms just below us were occu- 
pied by one William Garrick, a nervous, pipe- 
smoking, little Freshman from Illinois, who 
had been accompanied to the college by his 
guardian uncle. This guardian uncle, who 
stayed about Cambridge for some time, was 
the quintessence of practicality and Western 
common sense. 

A suite of rooms on the other side of the 
house was occupied by one John Francis 
Avonill. This fellow — but twenty-two years 
old — had the distinction of being the most 
proficient connoisseur of wines and one of 


The Blood of the Holy Cross 2 1 

the best classical students about the college. 
A rare combination to be sure ! He was the 
dressiest youth I ever saw, a skilful fencer, 
could outswear any Irish sailor where swear- 
ing was not extremely offensive, and in the 
presence of ladies conduct himself as a model 
of propriety and good breeding. His father 
had been for many years a congressman from 
one of the Southern states. John Francis 
may have absorbed the virtues and vices of the 
South ; but where he learned the virtues and 
vices of the remainder of the world, I cannot 
venture to suggest, unless it was while living 
with his father in Washington, where the 
attachis of foreign dignitaries usually enter- 
tain themselves after their own peculiar 
fashion. Like Van Abering, he was tall and 
had dark hair ; but with the complexion and 
nonchalant grace of a woman. 

As time rolled on, and the acquaintance 
existing among the four of us ripened into 
friendship, we saw in one another better 
qualities than were indicated by any mere 
external aspect. Garrick had artistic tastes. 


22 


A Farrago 


decorated his walls with copies of the old 
masters, and his mantel and itaghes with min- 
iatures of Doryphorus, Discobolus, Michael 
Angelo’s David, Harmodius, and The Borg- 
hese Warrior, about whom Avonill told us 
imaginary stories that rivaled the fantastic 
horseplay of the ancient gods. He had a 
very good and generous disposition, too, — 
this nervous little freshman, — he supplied 
our tobacco when we hadn’t any (and we 
generally saw to it that we were out); he 
wanted to be a doctor and help people, he 
loaned us money, and sewed on our buttons 
when we had to have it done at once, and 
thus sewed his memory into our hearts. 

Avonill, though he had bad habits, which 
I fear sometimes made inroads upon our 
better natures by way of his good humor, 
was, above all, the soul of honor ; he never 
injured anybody but himself, and always bore 
his injuries cheerfully, knowing that they 
were self-inflicted. 

Van Abering was more of a scholar than 
any of us, of faultless habits, rather sensitive 


The Blood of the Holy Cross 23 

nature, and a somewhat deep and unfathom- 
able personality. It was impossible to rec- 
oncile the demonstration of wrath he made 
the morning we were looking for rooms with 
what I had learned of him. I had seen that 
terrible expression in his face but once since ; 
and that was one morning when we met the 
old woman in the street. It was an expres- 
sion one did not soon forget. His feeling 
against anything seemed never to vanish from 
him ; and while in these fits of passion he 
looked like a different person. 

We had a glorious time in this house. In 
the evening after study, we often went to 
Garrick’s rooms to listen to our friends of 
Western learning. There was, indeed, a 
motley crowd when we got together. The 
guardian uncle took great interest in all of us, 
asking all sorts of questions, and what we 
were going to 'Tollow” when we graduated. 

‘‘Come out West,” he said, “there’s room 
to stretch there. You can bring some culture 
with you, and we ’ll give you some common 
sense for it.” 


24 


A Farrago 


I Ve got culture to burn,” said Avonill, 
lighting a cigarette, and offering one to the 
uncle, who laughingly refused, saying that he 
never smoked anything but ‘^Long Green.” 

And I don’t intend to sell any of my 
culture ; but am going to take it with me when 
I die,” continued Avonill, laboring with his 
cigarette. 

‘‘It will probably burn then,” replied the 
sagacious rustic from Illinois, and the laugh 
was charged to Avonill. 

“My mother has some land in the West,” 
said Van Abering. “ Perhaps you know 
where it is.” 

“The West is a very big place, my son,” 
responded the uncle. 

“It is in Logan County, Illinois. Perhaps 
you would know from that.” 

“ Why ! ” exclaimed the old gentleman, 
“that isn’t far from where we live — only 
about thirty or forty miles. How in the 
world did you come to have land there } It ’s 
a fine country.” 

“ My father inherited it from my grand- 


The Blood of the Holy Cross 2 5 

father. My grandfather once owned the en- 
tire county. That was many years ago, of 
course. I may come out to see the land 
some day.” 

This gave the guardian uncle a cue to 
exploit the West; and he did it in masterly 
fashion. I fully believed that in Illinois one 
might find money growing on the trees or in 
the ground, just as one liked. 

After a lunch, which Garrick always had 
prepared on such occasions, and much tobacco 
smoke, with many an old and new story — the 
clock hands up as high as they could go in 
holy horror of the lateness of the hour — we 
brushed ourselves off to bed, seldom failing 
to intimate to the professors in the morning 
that the lessons had been dreadfully long, 
and that we were crowded to death with 
work. 

Sometimes the assembly gathered in Avon- 
ill’s apartment, which was a fine retreat 
when one had the blues. He knew all the 
funny stories (and some bad ones) about 
ancient and medieval celebrities — about Vir- 


26 


A Farrago 


gil, Cicero, Caesar, Buridan, Boccaccio! de 
Saint-Evremond and others ; and he had a 
guitar over which he sang humorous and sad 
old Southern songs. The evenings gener- 
ally ended in a game of cards, with anything 
you wanted in the carafe from water to old 
East India Madeira. 

One need not be shocked ; we all had 
much to learn ; and in due time the sins of 
college days and careless youth were to be 
laid aside. We revelled in our freedom, as 
a lion in his forest ; and though we had 
great plans of what we were going to do in 
the world, we did not long impatiently for 
an emancipation from what we had repeatedly 
heard alumni say was the elysian period of 
life : and in the end, we should all have turned 
out well enough, I suppose, had it not been 
for something that lurked in the blood of one 
we least suspected. 


III. 

Sometimes the old lieutenant and the 
madam e would invite us down to spend the 


The Blood of the Holy Cross 27 

evening. Although the old officer was on 
the shady side of life and was henpecked, he 
had nevertheless a kind of breezy humor 
that hailed from the harbors of many climes ; 
and many an interesting tale did he take out 
of his memory, when on occasions we 
gathered around and pressed him hard, or 
lured him unconsciously into unfolding the 
mysteries of the deep or the romances and 
tragedies of ports and harbors. (I will write 
some of these out some day.) 

One cold evening on the declining side 
of winter, we found ourselves comfortably 
planted before the glowing fireplace in the 
old officer’s library. Every wall, except the 
one containing the large grate, was lined 
with books. It was a library of the sea — 
sea stories, voyages, reports of commissions, 
discoveries, and other subjects pertaining, 
more or less directly, to sea or ocean lore. 
Odd foreign weapons were lying carelessly 
about ; and above the books hung a few 
yellow parchments and old portraits of for- 
gotten heroes of the stormy main. The 


chandelier hanging from the centre of the 
ceiling descended very low, and terminated 
in Turkish decorations, whicji smothered and 
softened the light, so that at the climax of 
some of the old lieutenant’s stories, one half 
believed himself to be rocking in the very 
cabin where the thing was taking place. A 
sort of mysterious glimmer hung over the 
room ; and although in the company of other 
persons, one felt singularly alone and in- 
clined to introspection, or doubtful as to the 
exact identity of those present. 

We had a merry time, however, on this 
evening — a statelier merriment than we 
were wont to have in our own apartments, 
to be sure, but nevertheless merry. The 
old officer told us something of his South 
Sea island life, where one day in the country, 
some distance from his companions in the 
village, he was thrown from his horse. 
** After lying, unconscious, in the hot sun for 
a while,” he went on, was found by an 
old native, who took me to his hut, and 
nursed me very carefully. When, after a 


The Blood of the Holy Cross 29 

few days, I was well enough to go, he told 
me that, in consideration of his taking care 
of me, I must marry one of his daughters ; 
and he bade me prepare for the wedding on 
the morrow. That night I put into my bed 
a rejected native suitor of my swarthy thick- 
lipped fianc^Cy and fled. How the affair went 
off the next morning when they found my 
substitute, it would be hard to tell. You 
see, I could not accept the old yellow-skinned 
islander's daughter, who would have been 
homely in a flock of cranes, because I had a 
wife here in the States.” 

Then Garrick told Mark Twain's Jump- 
ing Frog Story with variations adapted to 
the country of Illinois ; and Van Abering 
propounded idealistic philosophy, and tried 
to make us believe that nothing existed but 
ideas, that the very pictures were not there, 
but in our heads. 

‘‘Well, do our heads exist asked Avon- 
ill. 

“Nothing but ideas jexists,” answered Van 
Abering. 


30 


A Farrago 


I thought you said that ideas were in 
our heads,” retorted Avonill, and we had the 
laugh on Van Abering, who didn’t like to be 
laughed at. 

Then Avonill sang Dixie,” ‘‘Massa’s 
Body,” ‘‘Old Kentucky Home,” “Swanee 
Ribber,” and other songs that the Southern 
children learn while they are still teething, 
accompanying himself on the piano, which 
stood in the drawing-room near the library 
door. I never felt so homesick as when he 
came to the words : “ Far, far away,” and 
“All de world am sad and dreary”; for 
though his voice was not strong, it was as 
soft and rich in tone as any I ever heard in a 
drawing-room ; and being a sentimental sort 
of chap, he felt his own music, as did every 
one else. 

Finally, the madame sent in a dainty 
luncheon (much too dainty for our appetites) ; 
after which, as usual, the others settled 
themselves for whist ; while I loitered about 
the room looking at the books, or had a tete- 
d-tete with the madame if she happened to be 


The Blood of the Holy Cross 3 1 

in. Avonill and the old lieutenant played 
against Van Abering and Garrick. They 
played in silence for a while, when Avonill 
began to make innocent sport of Van Aber- 
ing, because he and his partner had been 
losing. 

‘‘You don’t play well,” he observed, in 
good-humored sarcasm. 

Like a flash this struck Van Abering’s 
sensitive nature. “Whom do you mean ” 
he said, and the blood rose into his colorless 
face. 

“You! whom do you think ” said Avon- 
ill, carelessly; then turning to Garrick, who 
was shuffling the cards, he insisted that it 
was his deal. 

Garrick gave up the cards, and the game 
proceeded as before ; except that Van Aber- 
ing remained silent and did not once look at 
Avonill, who sat on his right ; and who, 
judging from his continued jollity, was wholly 
unaware that he had offended any one. But 
Van Abering sat like one stricken with cata- 
lepsy, his face growing paler with every jest 


32 


A Farrago 


from his opponent. It soon came Van Aber- 
ing’s deal. Diamonds were trumps. They 
had played around, dividing the spoils, until 
each player had one card left, except Avonill, 
who had none. Van Abering led the eight 
of hearts, the lieutenant put on the ten of 
hearts, Garrick played the tray of diamonds, 
and was about to take the trick, when Avon- 
ill shouted, “Misdeal! I have no card,’' at 
the same time taking the nine of diamonds 
from Van Abering’ s lap. Avonill dropped the 
nine spot on the table, arose quietly, turned, 
winked to me and the madame, and said, 
“ Gentlemen, that looks as if the cards had 
been poorly fixed up.” 

Van Abering sprang to his feet, his chair 
falling to the floor behind him. “ Do you 
mean to say that I dealt the cards dis- 
honestly.^” There was that same ugly ex- 
pression in his face. He trembled like a 
leaf, and stared like a savage into his ac- 
cuser’s face. 

“ Good heavens I ” cried the madame, leav- 
ing the room. 


The Blood of the Holy Cross 3 3 

Avonill, indiscreetly carrying the jest far- 
ther, said, ‘‘Well, it looks — 

Van Abering heaved like one bereft of his 
reason, and seizing a poniard that lay among 
the oriental weapons on a stand by his left, 
started towards him. 

Ugh ! it was a disgrace ! 

“What do you mean.^ ” demanded the old 
lieutenant, and in an instant he was on his 
feet, pushed Avonill into a corner and faced 
Van Abering. “ Put away that dagger, and 
don’t make a fool of yourself! You had 
better leave the room — or the house, if you 
like.” 

Van Abering walked unsteadily to the 
door, turned, and hissing through his teeth, 
“ We shall see each other again,” went to our 
rooms. A few moments later the street door 
was heard to open and close. 

It was all over in a flash. We were all so 
dumbfounded that for at least a minute no 
one spoke. 

“ What a fool ! ” exclaimed the old officer. 

“He must be insane,” observed Garrick, 


34 


A Farrago 


collecting his senses. ^‘Whoever saw such 
an exhibition of passion ! 

Avonill said nothing, though he looked 
like one dazed by a blow. This look in Van 
Abering's face was new to him. As said 
before, one never forgot it. In an instant 
almost, a good friend and companion was 
changed into a savage leopard, a wild cat of 
the jungles. 

‘*This is a disgrace,’' said the officer. '‘It 
must be kept among ourselves. If it had 
been an arranged encounter on a fair field, it 
would have been different — but here in the 
house ! ” 

I did not feel that I had anything to say, 
as Henry Van Abering was my room-mate 
and my closest friend. 

Presently Avonill arose, said, “ Good night,” 
in a dignified and self-sufficient manner, and 
left the room. He also seemed now changed ; 
he had never before worn so resolute a 
countenance. 

“I believe I’ll follow Van Abering and try 
to straighten out things between them — 


The Blood of the Holy Cross 3 5 

explain that Francis was in fun,” said Garrick, 
still agitated. 

‘‘No,” said the old officer, “it would be 
too dangerous a task for so unworthy a prize. 
He has lost his reason. I never saw any- 
thing like it in my life.” 

I could not help it that this estimate of my 
room-mate hurt me ; but I agreed with the 
old officer that to follow him was not safe. 

Van Abering did not come home that 
night. 

IV. 

The next night Avonill was out until nearly 
two o’clock. 

The second morning later, the old lieuten- 
ant left the house before daybreak — a thing 
he was never known to have done before. 

On the third night, Avonill and the old 
officer came in together, about one o’clock, 
and retreated to the former’s rooms. I went 
down to ask if they had learned anything 
concerning Van Abering. As I was approach- 
ing the door, which was partially open, I 


36 


A Fan^ago 


heard the old officer say, earnestly, Of 
course, it is just the place, within the old 
fort — the island is absolutely deserted.” 

Have they agreed V inquired Avonill. 

It was their proposition,” replied the old 
officer. 

I knocked, the conversation ended abruptly; 
I went in and asked my question, to which 
both replied that they had not heard or seen 
anything of Van Abering. AvonilFs face 
was greatly changed, and the old officer was 
a little nervous with excitement. I at once 
left them to themselves, for it was evident 
that they were intent upon private matters. 

On the morning of the fourth day it began 
to snow ; and at about three o’clock a darky 
appeared at the door, to whom the madame 
gave Van Abering’s long storm-cape. It 
stopped snowing in the evening. 

On the afternoon of the fifth day — Satur- 
day — the old officer bade the madame 
good-bye; saying, as he went away, that he 
would be back from the hills as quickly as 
possible — perhaps the day after tomorrow, 


The Blood of the Holy Cross 37 

and that he hoped to bring some game, 
too. 

Avonill had not been in the house since 
morning; and Van Abering had not been 
seen since the night of the affair in the old 
officer’s library. 

V. 

At nightfall, a small bent man was prying 
at a porthole in the old deserted fort on 
Castle Island, which stands out in the har- 
bor about a half mile from the mainland. 

Several hours later, a figure was crouch- 
ing behind the statue of Farragut, at the 
foot of the bridge leading from the mainland 
to the island, as a mounted policeman gal- 
loped by on his beat. A few seconds later 
a skiff emerged for a moment from among 
the piers of the bridge, and the person 
behind the statue, wrapped in a long storm- 
cape, ran across the dimly moonlit road, and 
disappeared in the shadow where the skiff 
had receded. All was silent for a little 
while, when presently oars were heard plying 


38 


A Farrago 


with all their might in the direction of Castle 
Island. The tall figure in the storm-cape 
sat in the stern of the skiff, while a muscu- 
lar man did the rowing. 

Behind them lay Boston ; to the north, 
through the still cold atmosphere, shone 
the myriad lights of Charlestown, Chelsea, 
East Boston, and Winthrop ; in front, the 
alternating red and white flames on the 
lighthouse of Deer Island guided them in 
their course. With every stroke the skiff 
was making rapid strides towards the open 
sea, fully one hundred yards from the pier 
leading in the same direction. They would 
reach the island in twenty minutes, they 
thought ; when suddenly a bitter cold gale 
from the north hurled the fragile boat in the 
direction of the pier. The oarsman fought 
the contending currents, the wind, and the 
broken waves, with all his power, but to no 
avail ; one surge after another carried them 
upon the pier. 

‘^Pull for your life,” cried the man in the 
stern, half rising to his feet. 


The Blood of the Holy Cross 39 

At the same moment, a skiff left Govern- 
or’s Island, with its bow directed toward the 
south. The wind and currents which were 
playing havoc with the other skiff, carried 
this one with double rapidity ; and in fifteen 
minutes it landed among the snow-covered 
rocks at the northeast corner of Castle Is- 
land. Two men alighted, hastened toward 
the fort, and climbed through the open port- 
hole in the east wall, facing the sea. 

‘'Who’s there said a voice within. 

“ Avonill and the oarsman.” 

“Very well, make haste. It is turning 
colder. Let us go to our post at once ; the 
time will soon be up,” said the old man ; and 
the three started towards the southeast corner 
of the fort. When they emerged from the 
shadow of the wall, the moonlight shone 
on none other than the old naval officer, 
who seemed younger than ever, and in his 
element. 

By night — especially by winter night, Cas- 
tle Island is as isolated as an island in the 
heart of the Pacific. Excepting a single old 


40 


A Farrago 


United States sergeant, it is devoid of life ; 
and only suggests its former glory by old 
grass-grown Fort Independence, thirty or 
forty heavy artillery pieces lying about, and 
two earthen powder magazines. An acre 
and a half of uncovered ground lie within 
the huge stone walls of the old fort ; and on 
this wintry night, a full moon shed its light 
upon the untrampled snow of this spacious 
arena ; a north wind piped merrily over the 
high walls, mingling with the splashes and 
gurgling of the giddy waves as they washed 
the beach of frozen stones. 

‘‘What time is it.^^” asked Avonill. 

A moment later the bells of thirty tow- 
ers in the distant cities tolled the hour of 
twelve. 

They had gained the southeast corner. 
The old officer led through an opening in the 
south wall into a stone cell, where a warm 
fire burned in a fireplace that had been cold 
since the War of the Rebellion, when the 
Confederate woman spy William Boyd was 
imprisoned on the spot where they stood. 


The Blood of the Holy Cross 41 

Wait here until you hear the signal/’ said 
the old officer, then come at once, prepared ; 
and do not forget what I have told you ; this 
is the real thing — the final hour!” So say- 
ing, he left Avonill and the oarsman, and 
started in a northwestern direction across the 
fort field. Before he had gained the other 
side, two persons were climbing down the 
wall in front of him ; reaching the ground 
one advanced toward him, and the other dis- 
appeared in the shadow. 

‘‘ Ah I you have beaten us in point of 
time,” said the stranger, giving his hand to 
the lieutenant. 

‘‘Yes, let us make haste.” 

“Presently,” said the stranger, “we shall 
be ready presently. Here is your guard,” 
and he gave the lieutenant a long slender 
cane. 

They walked towards the centre of the 
field, neither uttering a word, till the stranger 
broke the silence by saying, “We are 
ready now.” The old officer gave a shrill 
whistle, and for twenty seconds the two 


42 A Farrago 

stood eagerly looking towards their respective 
corners. 

From the northwest corner, dressed in 
dark trousers, a white shirt open at the 
breast, and bareheaded, in measured steps, 
came Henry Van Abering. He stopped 
about fifty feet from the two, and stood in 
the cold, almost naked, as silent as a statue. 
An instant later, Avonill appeared in his 
overcoat, which he dropped at about the same 
distance on the other side. 

Are you ready asked the stranger. 

‘‘Yes,” answered Van Abering. 

Avonill was mute. 

“Then come forward.” 

Both advanced, took a rapier from the 
stranger’s hand, and fell back about ten feet. 
The old officer and the stranger moved quickly 
on either side. 

“Ready,” said Van Abering’s second, and 
the game begins. 

Avonill moves forward slowly, rolling up 
his right sleeve; Van Abering comes with a 
bound ; the blades are crossed at the point ; 


The Blood of the Holy Cross 43 

and the latter begins a ferocious aggression, 
forcing Avonill backward, one step after 
another. 

** Stand your ground and fight ! cries Van 
Abering, feigning to thrust. 

Avonill fences like a master, parrying first 
to the right then to the left, but with less 
rapidity than his antagonist, who becomes 
more feline every second, avoiding punish- 
ment by cunningly veering from one position 
to another. The blood begins to trickle from 
his bitten lips. He is pricked on the right 
shoulder by his enemy’s point, and wards off 
a second keen thrust with his left arm. 

‘‘Fence fair, you coward!” commands 
Avonill, jumping aside and recovering his 
guard. 

Van Abering assumes the aggressive 
again, and thrice does he thrust, leaping like 
a leopard towards his enemy, following with 
two blows ; Avonill stands his ground and 
the glittering blades are bound at the hilt. 
Both recover their guards ; and Avonill, hug- 
ging his antagonist’s sword, maneuvers for an 


44 


A Farrago 


opening — drops his rapier, and sinks to the 
ground. It was so quick the old lieutenant 
did not see it. 

‘‘In the abdomen,” cries Van Abering’s 
second, as they run toward the northwest 
wall, while Avonill lies bleeding in the snow. 

VI. 

On Monday, the seventh day after the 
affair in the old lieutenant's library, I was 
sitting in our rooms, studying, when Garrick 
came running in. 

“ What on earth does this mean he ex- 
claimed, holding out a letter to me. “ Where 
is Henry } ” 

“ He hasn’t been here for a week ; I don’t 
know where he is,” I said, taking the letter. 

It was from Avonill, asking Garrick to 
come to see him at once, at the Massachu- 
setts General Hospital in Boston. 

Garrick looked at me significantly and 
said, “I have not seen Avonill since Satur- 
day morning. I shall go to the hospital at 
once,” and he hurried off very nervous. 


The Blood of the Holy Cross 45 

There were three letters from New York 
lying on Van Abering’s desk, evidently from 
his mother or sister, for they were in a 
woman’s handwriting; and in the afternoon a 
telegram came addressed to him. I was 
assured that it was now time to endeavor to 
find my room-mate ; so about three o’clock in 
the afternoon, I proceeded the rounds of the 
dormitories, inquiring of our friends whether 
they had seen him. No one could remember 
to have seen him for several days ; and the 
roll books showed that he had been absent 
from his classes since the early part of the 
week before, a fact corresponding singularly 
with the affair in the old officer’s library, 
which had happened on Monday night. After 
a useless search of every nook and corner 
where I fancied my room-mate might be, I 
returned to our rooms about eight o’clock in 
the evening, tired and worn, and threw my- 
self upon the couch, when presently there 
came a tapping at my door. 

Come in.” 

The old officer entered. After saying, 


46 


A Farrago 


“ Good evening/’ in his polite way, he handed 
me a telegram. ‘‘ It came this afternoon ; I 
signed for you.” 

It was from Van Abering’s mother, asking 
me if anything had happened to her son, 
saying that he had not written for some time, 
that she was very anxious about him, and 
that I should be kind enough to write her at 
once, since she had been unable to persuade 
her son to do so. 

I turned to the old officer and asked him 
if he knew where Van Abering was ; but be- 
fore he had time to answer, Garrick came in. 

Well, what was ailing Avonill 1'" I 
asked. 

‘*He is very sick.” 

<*Is he no better.? ” asked the old lieuten- 
ant, somewhat disconcerted. 

No, he is worse.” 

What ails him .? ” I repeated. 

‘‘ Some internal trouble that might happen 
to anybody, he told me,” answered Garrick. 

‘‘ Good night,” said the old lieutenant, 
going to the door, much relieved to know 


The Blood of the Holy Cross 47 

that it was something that might happen to 
anybody, and that Avonill had kept the faith. 

After Garrick and I talked over the things 
that had happened, being unable to make out 
either heads or tails, he went to his room, 
and I sat down to write to Mrs. Van Abering. 
I told her what I knew, — which was very 
little compared with all that had happened, — 
that Henry had not been about the rooms or 
attended recitations and lectures for several 
days, that no one had seen him, and that 
about a week ago he had quarrelled with a 
friend. I tried to write as encouragingly as 
I could, and suggested that perhaps he might 
be taking a hunting trip up in the Adiron- 
dacks, as I had heard him speak of wishing 
to do. 

Three days more passed ; but Van Abering 
did not return. Avonill’s condition remained 
about the same. Though we had not been 
admitted to see him, we made daily inquiries 
at the hospital. On this day I received a 
telegram, asking me to come to New York, 
that Mrs. Van Abering wished to see me,^ 


48 


A Farrago 


that as yet no word had come from Henry, — 
signed, ‘^Rosamond Van Abering/* This 
was evidently Henry’s sister. I wired her 
that I should arrive in the morning by the 
Fall River Line. 

It was a bright morning for winter time, 
when I found myself wandering upon the 
Fall River dock, trying to decide in my mind 
of which person to ask directions, when pres- 
ently a coachman presented himself and pro- 
nounced my name. 

‘‘ Yes, ” I said. I suppose he knew me 
from the initials on my dressing case. 

‘‘ I will take you in the carriage. Let me 
have your grip. Have you any other bag- 
gage ” he asked. 

I assured him that I had not, and in a few 
moments I was rolling over the streets of 
New York, down Broadway, past Union 
Square and Madison Square, into Fifth 
Avenue. The carriage finally stopped before 
a spacious house, and I was led into a 
magnificently decorated drawing-room. De- 
spite the earliness of the hour, an adjoining 


The Blood of the Holy Cross 49 

door opened in a moment and a matronly 
woman of about forty-five gave me her hand. 
From the appearance of a girl, who passed 
the door just opened, I could tell, before the 
lady spoke, that these were the mother and 
sister of my room-mate. The mother, whose 
hair was prematurely gray, but whose face 
and demeanor were those of a woman who 
had been fostered amid the best things of 
this world, still holding my hand, and with a 
look of deepest maternal feeling, said : — 
You will pardon us for calling you here ; 
you see Henry is very dear to me, he is my 
only son ; and what you have written me, 
and his failure to let me know where he is, 
have grieved me greatly.” Then calling me 
by name, Have you anything additional to 
tell us } ” she asked, beseechingly looking 
into my eyes. 

‘‘No,” I answered, “nothing.” 

Just then the daughter came in. She was 
the picture of her brother ; except that she 
was fairer in complexion, not quite so tall, 
and a little heavier ; but with the same raven 


A Farrago 


SO 

hair and high cheek bones. She greeted me 
without waiting for an introduction. One 
could see from her eyes and face that she 
had slept little of late, and was as anxious as 
her mother about what had happened. 

They sat very near to me, and were eager 
with attention, while I recited again all that 
I knew. I told of Henry’s quarrel, and re- 
lated for the first time his attempt on Avon- 
ill’s life in the old officer’s study; but I 
mentioned no names. I scarcely had the 
heart to tell it, for it seemed infidelity to 
my room-mate, and would cause additional 
anxiety on the part of the mother and sister ; 
but they insisted that I should omit nothing. 
The girl had tears in her eyes, and the 
mother’s face betrayed a mingling of shame 
and of anxious sorrow — shame for anything 
that savored of bravado, and anxious sor- 
row for the love she bore her son. 

Oh ! mamma, what shall we do } ” ex- 
claimed the girl. 

The mother made no reply ; but sat look- 
ing into space. She seemed to have a 


The Blood of the Holy Qvss 5 1 

deeper understanding of the demonstration 
of wrath made by her son, and of his 
absence, than either the girl or myself ; she 
seemed to understand something that we did 
not. What excited mystery in the girl that 
her brother should have acted thus, seemed 
only to confirm the mother in her judgments ; 
and as we started for breakfast soon after, 
she asked me to hold the matter in confi- 
dence, and to remain with them until they 
had at least made some progress toward 
finding her son. 

After we had breakfasted, I wrote letters 
to every person I could think of with whom 
there was any possibility that Henry might 
be staying ; and Mrs. Van Abering did the 
same. The letters were so written that no 
suspicion might be aroused on the part of the 
recipients. 

I called at the apartments every afternoon 
and evening, at which times we developed 
further plans and I reported anything new 
that I had learned. I confess that the 
anxiety betrayed by the mother and sister 


52 


A Farrago 


seemed to me unwarranted, for I believed 
that in due time Henry would make his 
appearance. 

One evening when I called, Mrs. Van 
Abering had gone out to seek relief in the 
company of some friends, and I was received 
by Miss Van Abering. 

*^Come, let us go into the library,” she 
said, “it is cosier. You must not think us 
cowardly,” she continued presently, “in our 
worrying about Henry; call it rather over- 
indulgence in our love for him ; but you 
see — I ought not to tell it, perhaps; but 
you have been so kind to help us — Henry 
did this once before, when he was quite small. 
He quarreled with papa, and five days later 
was found in Brooklyn.” 

This girl had a weird, dark, and careless 
kind of beauty ; and in her conversation she 
was as naive as a child, and very daring. 
“ What must she be in her gayer moments ! ” 
thought I. Or was it her melancholy that 
enlisted my feeling. I own she attracted 
me. But so long as one is silent about such 


The Blood of the Holy Cross 53 

things — especially to the girl — it doesn't 
matter, I suppose; for as time goes apace, 
he finds that his affections have outwitted 
him, and that he has had this same ailment 
before — perhaps to the number of twenty 
times ere he has scaled that many years. I 
had not been long in their apartments before 
I understood, from different things Miss Van 
Abering said, and from the frequent presence 
of a noble-looking young gentleman, that 
there were other considerations which made 
the sudden disappearance of her brother of 
double importance to her. 

Seeming to surmise that I understood her 
inner thoughts, she said, presently, handing 
me a photograph of the young man : ‘‘ This 
is Mr. Buchtel. You see how important it 
is that no harm has befallen my brother; 
because" — and then she looked away from 
me — ‘‘ because — because we are to be 
married in a month." From the manner in 
which she spoke of Mr. Emery Buchtel, and 
the fondness with which she lingered on 
topics not foreign to him, I readily under- 


54 A Farrago 

stood that the realization of the love of that 
attachment must have been the dream of her 
life. She was not more than twenty, and 
like her mother, had been reared among the 
best that wealth and gentle environments 
can give. 

I had now an additional motive to find 
Henry Van Abering. 

VII. 

On Sunday afternoon, we were driven to 
Greenwood Cemetery, Brooklyn. Although 
it was a pleasant late winter afternoon, it was 
too cold to remain outdoors very long for 
pleasure ; but it was not a pleasure drive ; 
the burden had become too great for Mrs. 
Van Abering, and she sought comfort by the 
grave of her husband. Silent comforter, 
indeed,’' thought I, as we stood before the 
tombs of the Van Aberings, upon the frozen 
ground of one of which Mrs. Van Abering 
strewed some flowers. How tenderly her 
husband must have cared for her in years 
gone by ; so that now, long after his death. 


The Blood of the Holy Cross 5 5 

when sorrow came, she sought his counsel 
and protection, as she had done when he still 
abode near her side. She had lived for him, 
and now all that remained of the life of the 
past were her son and daughter. Widow- 
hood had increased the sentiment of mater- 
nity in her heart, and the happiness she once 
found in her husband was born again in her 
children. How jealously, therefore, she loved 
her son ! and if the cruel archer of destiny 
had now shot at him, it was too late in life 
to leave a wound that time could heal. 

Never shall I forget her as she stood there 
against the gray sky of failing winter, as 
silent as the tombs about her, her hands 
folded in front, and her face colorless in 
the chill of the bleak winds. Presently her 
downcast countenance was raised; and she 
seemed to receive hope from above, which 
she could not find in the desolation of the 
grave. Turning toward us, she said softly 
to her daughter, ‘‘ I shall come back in a few 
moments, stay till I return.*’ She walked 
slowly to the coach and directed the driver. 


56 


A Farrago 


‘‘This is my great-grandfather’s grave,” 
said the girl, in a voice which showed that 
she had not felt deeply like her mother. The 
cemetery to her was only a place where 
people are buried ; she had not yet seen love 
and hope and all that makes us want to live 
vanish like the final hour of one condemned 
to die. “ This is my grandfather s sister’s,” 
she continued, pointing to another ; and here 
lies my grandfather.” 

The grandfather’s tomb read: — 

Erected to the Memory 

OF 

GUIDO ANDREAS VAN ABERING. 

Born 1802. 

Died 1859. 

“ None hut the brave deserve the fair.'"^ 

000 

“Your grandfather must have been a 
soldier.” 

“ No,” said the girl, “ I think he was never 
a soldier. He was a business man like papa. 
Do you see those three diamonds down 
below 


The Blood of the Holy Cross 5 7 

Where?” 

There in the center, where I am point- 
ing.” 

‘^Yes.” 

Do you know what they are ? ” 

‘‘No,” I answered, “I haven’t any idea.” 

“Well, I will tell you,” and then she smiled 
at having aroused my curiosity, “ I don ’t 
know myself.” 

While we were still talking about the 
diamonds on the grandfather’s tomb, and 
wondering what they might indicate, Mrs. 
Van Abering returned. Hearing the subject 
of our conversation, she seemed to wish to 
change it, and made some remark to Miss 
Van Abering about other matters. 

“ Mamma, did n’t you ever know what those 
diamonds on grandfather’s grave mean ? ” 
persisted the girl, as we entered the coach 
to start back. 

“No,” returned Mrs. Van Abering, kindly. 

“ Did n’t papa know either ? ” 

“No, I suppose he didn’t know,” replied 
the mother, evidently trying to think of some- 


58 


A Farrago 


thing else to say ; for, it seemed, the marks 
on the grandfather’s grave were either some- 
what shrouded in mystery, or, in the mother’s 
opinion, were not a subject for her daugh- 
ter’s curiosity and inspection. 

Who put them there } ” she continued, 
after a few moments’ meditation. 

*‘It was your grandfather’s wish,” replied 
the mother, ‘‘that is all I know, my child ; ” 
but from the expression of her countenance, 
where truth and maternal duty seemed at 
strife, it was evident that that was by no 
means the extent of her knowledge concern- 
ing the three diamonds on the tomb of the 
grandfather. 


The first delivery of mail on Monday 
morning brought me this letter : — 

“ I have just heard of Van Abering. He is with 
my uncle, near Decatur, Illinois — think of it! — 
going to see his land in Logan County. My uncle 
says he is sick, and that he requested him not to 
write anybody that he is there. Say — if you know 
what all this fuss about Van Abering means, I want 


The Blood of the Holy Cross 59 

to know — do you hear? Francis was worse this 
morning. Poor Francis! 

Good-bye, old fellow. 

William Garrick.” 

Mrs. Van Abering and Rosamond received 
the news with no little emotion. I did not 
mention Henry's illness. They cried and 
embraced each other, then laughed a little 
and cried again — all for joy! It would have 
been discourteous to smile at them in their 
happiness ; and it was with difficulty that I 
restrained an expression of my amusement. 
Women are not to be looked at without 
danger to one’s esthetic notions when they 
reverse the tenor of their emotions frequently. 
“ All this anxiety for nothing ! ” thought I. 
But I was wrong ; their emotions had been 
wiser than my judgment ; it was not all over, 
as I thought. There was one duty yet, 
that was to try to induce Henry to return 
home. 

‘‘ Now, one thing more we have to beg of 
you,” said Mrs. Van Abering, hesitatingly, 
turning to me, when the first emotions had 


6o A Farrago 

passed. Will you go and bring Henry 
back to us 

I said that I should be glad to, if it were in 
my power. 

We will reward you for your kindness,*' 
continued the mother, uncertainly, fearing 
that she might offend. 

I assured her that what I had done was 
for the sympathy I had had in their anxiety 
and the affection I bore my room-mate, and 
that I should gladly go to Illinois at once, 
and try to persuade Henry to return to 
New York. 

No time was lost. After I telegraphed 
Garrick (that I was going to his uncle's 
home, and that he could reach me there or 
at the Van Abering farms, if he found it 
necessary on any account to write me), Mrs. 
and Miss Van Abering accompanied me in a 
carriage to the station from which I was to 
take my departure for Illinois. Mrs. Van 
Abering was liberal and sincere in her expres- 
sions of gratitude ; and Rosamond, as I was 
about to alight from the carriage, clung a 


The Blood of the Holy Cross 6 1 

moment to my hand, and said, ** Bring Henry 
back ” — then with a twinkle in her eyes and 
a secret smile about her lips — ‘‘and come 
to us again — in a month come to me often.’' 

VIII. 

In room number thirty-nine of the Massa- 
chusetts General Hospital lay John Francis 
Avonill, pale and thin, now the eleventh day. 
It was dark and gloomy without, the moaning 
of the wind and the cheerless view of the 
sky through the window, sank his once buoy- 
ant spirits to their lowest depths. At about 
two o’clock in the afternoon, he moved 
slightly, opened his eyes, and said to the 
nurse, “ Did you have the message sent } ” 
His voice was weak, and he spoke very 
slowly. 

“ Yes, it went at ten this morning,” replied 
the good woman. 

“ Has no one asked to see me } ” 

“ No, no one.” 

He closed his eyes again, and apparently 
went to sleep. 


62 A Farrago 

At five o’clock he repeated the questions, 
and again at six. 

At a little after eight, there came a soft 
tapping at the door, and the nurse ad- 
mitted a gentleman into the room, which 
was now dark. He quietly took a chair 
beside the bed, as the nurse turned on the 
lights. It was Mr. Emery Buchtel of New 
York. 

‘‘Francis, what is the trouble.^ I didn’t 
know you were sick,” he said, deeply moved 
at Avonill’s appearance. 

Avonill took his thin, white hand from 
under the covers, placed it in his visitor’s, 
and looking up at the nurse said, “We want 
to be alone for a while.” 

The nurse retired. 

Mr. Emery Buchtel was a full-blooded 
youth of twenty-five. His florid face was 
somewhat white now, as if he were laboring 
under great anxiety. 

“ Emery,” said Avonill, at length, “ we 
haven’t seen each other for a long time — 
have we ” 


The Blood of the Holy Cross 63 

** No, but you can’t imagine how grieved 
I am to see you in this condition.” 

I have sent for you to come and stay 
with me a little while.” 

Yes, I will stay till you are well. Why 
did n’t you send for me sooner ? I did n’t 
know you were sick. What is the trouble.^ ” 

^‘Wait, no haste,” replied Avonill in a 
slow, resigned voice. I will tell you all ; 
you must give me time.” He stopped a 
moment to catch his breath, then continued, 
gripping his visitor’s hand more firmly, 
^‘You are my nearest kinsman, Emery, be- 
sides my father — as you may, perhaps, still 
remember.” 

‘'Yes, my boy, I have kept that much 
track of you ; and I will do anything for 
you,” said Buchtel, anxiously smoothing 
Avonill’s forehead. 

“ We played together when we were chil- 
dren — did n’t we } ” said Avonill, the pano- 
rama of his childhood passing before his 
closed eyes. 

“Yes.” 


64 


A Farrago 


** And I have sent for you, Emery, to tell 
you that — that I shall never get well/' 

Buchtel thought to make some encouraging 
remark ; but the death-like pallor of his kins- 
man's face did not warrant it. ‘‘ You have 
sent for your father, of course ? " he asked. 

‘‘No," replied Avonill, “because I could 
not tell him what has happened. I am going 
to tell you ; that is why I have sent for you ; 
and if when I am gone there is ever need 
that it should be known, you will tell or be 
silent, as you see fit." 

Wholly unused to this sort of experience, 
and having a tender affection for his relative 
from the memory of childhood, young Buchtel 
was burdened with emotions that did not 
readily find words, especially as he was not 
demonstrative and was slow in speech ; he 
therefore sat silent. 

Avonill related the affairs in the old lieu- 
tenant’s library and on Castle Island, stop- 
ping frequently to regain his breath. He 
made no reference to Van Abering, beyond 
saying that his antagonist was known to be 


The Blood of the Holy Cross 65 

linked with such a temper that when crossed 
he resembled a savage rather than a human 
being, and that the affair had arisen on that 
account. 

He must be prosecuted ! ” said Buchtel. 

No. We are equally guilty, except that 
I am additionally guilty of poor fencing,” 
continued Avonill, jesting even on his last 
bed. 

The nurse entered the room and said : 

Too much conversation will make you 
worse. Don’t you think you had better 
stop now } ” 

‘‘I will go,” said Buchtel, ^'and come back 
to-morrow ; but tell me first who this villain 
is.” His indignation found expression more 
readily than his sympathy, and was fully 
as great. 

‘‘ That does n’t matter much, Emery ; it 
was a fellow student by the name of Van 
Abering.” 


66 


A Farrago 


IX. 

There was nothing that distinguished my 
journey to Chicago, except that I was taken in 
turn for the poet James Whitcomb Riley, the 
porter of the coach, and the papa of an inno- 
cent little baby that nestled in its mamma's 
lap in the seat opposite. Of the three envi- 
able personages, I was in doubt as to which 
flattered me most ; but (though I greatly 
admire Mr. Riley) I believe it was the inno- 
cent little baby that continually looked over 
and called me papa. I changed cars in 
Chicago, and arrived in Decatur at night, 
where I stopped at a hotel that was under- 
going repairs, '‘The St. Nicholas," if I 
remember rightly. 

In the morning, I hired a carriage and a 
driver who was familiar with the surrounding 
country, and began my search for the home 
of Garrick's uncle (who bore the same name), 
in a northeastern direction, on the east bank 
of the Sangamon River, about ten miles 
distant. 


The Blood of the Holy Cross 67 

At noon, after four miles of useless driv- 
ing, five different guides, and ten miles of 
cold feet, we halted before a large, white, 
orderly-looking farm house, partially hidden 
amid a cluster of evergreens. In the back- 
ground, a windmill rattled, a spacious red 
barn shone in the winter sun, and a sym- 
phony of barking, cackling, bleating, lowing, 
and cow-bells, gave lustre and life to the soli- 
tary surroundings. East of the house, a 
little boy was driving sheep, under the loud 
command of Garrick’s uncle, who stood, 
pants in boots and erect like a general, 
beside a last year’s straw stack. I shivered 
myself around the side of the house, and 
knocked. Presently the door was opened 
by a calico dressed old lady, whose spectacles 
were poised so far on the end of her ample 
nose that she had to hold her head back to 
keep them on and to get a look at me through 
the lenses — or lens, for I believe one was 
missing. 

‘‘ Does Mr. Garrick live here ? ” 

'‘Yes,” replied the good old lady, her head 


68 


A Farrago 


falling back and her mouth opening gener- 
ously, did you want to see him ? ” 

Yes/^ 

^‘Well, come into the house. You look 
cold.” 

I went into the warm room, looked about ; 
but didn’t see Van Abering. In a short time 
Mr. Garrick came. There was that sort of 
genuineness in the hearty reception which 
he gave me that compensated for the 
cold ride. He asked about his nephew, 
about Avonill, made apologies for his appear- 
ance, presented me to the other members of 
the family, ordered two extra chickens for 
dinner, brought some home-made wine, and 
bestirred himself and the entire household 
as if I were the preacher or the congress- 
man’s son. He couldn’t imagine why I had 
come ; but I could tell that he did n’t want 
to ask. 

Presently he said, ‘‘ Henry Van Abering 
is with us.” 

Yes, I know,” I said. Where is he } ” 

‘‘ He took his gun for a hunt ; he generally 


The Blood of the Holy Cross 69 

comes back about sundown/' replied Mr. 
Garrick. 

About five o’clock in the evening, I was 
rocking over the rag carpet, before the large 
open fire-place (in form much like those on 
Fifth Avenue), observing a gaudily colored 
picture of the Brooklyn Bridge that hung on 
the wall, when the door opened, and in 
walked Henry Van Abering. Except a 
scanty black beard that covered his face, and 
old clothes, he looked about as usual. 

I turned, stood before him, offered my 
hand, and said, Henry, how are you t ” 

Dropping his hat to the floor, he took my 
hand, and replied, after a moment’s silence, 
I know why you have come.” There was 
no lustre in his voice and countenance ; they 
were resigned and dead. You came to tell 
me that the authorities want me,” he con- 
tinued in a low voice, as if fearing to be 
overheard. 

Yes, the highest authorities.” 

He looked me straight in the eye. 

Your mother and sister.” 


70 A Farrago 

There was evident relief at this, and he 
gave me his hand again ; but he did not say 
much more. The great change which had 
overtaken his disposition and what he had 
said about the authorities were alike myste- 
rious and inexplicable to me. 

In the evening after supper, we sat 
together in a room upstairs, where a glowing 
fire had been built some hours before. He 
asked very affectionately of his mother and 
sister, and how I had come to go to New 
York, and of the affairs about the college. 
He spoke very kindly throughout, and con- 
fessed that he was glad to see me. 

“ Henry,'’ I said, at an opportune moment, 
‘‘ your mother and sister have sent me here 
to ask you to come home.” 

He shook his head, as much as to say, 
‘‘ I wish I could ; but that would be impossi- 
ble.” ‘‘Some day,” he said, still more 
resigned, “ I will tell you what my greatest 
enemy has done.” 

“ Who is he } ” I asked, thinking of poor 
Avonill. 


The Blood of the Holy Cross 7 1 

It is myself,’' he said, walking to the 
window, and looking out into the night, to 
hide his emotion, it is myself, it is a part 
of me that makes me different without my 
will. It must be my blood.” 

I understood that he referred to his tem- 
per ; he had spoken more truly than either 
he or I knew; but not more truly than his 
mother knew, and we were yet to learn. He 
was more reticent this evening than I had 
ever seen him before ; he walked up and 
down the room and frequently looked out 
the window into the cheerless night. Once, 
after a long silence, still facing the window, 
he said, partially to me, but perhaps more to 
himself, “And we are to know ourselves.” 

A stranger would not have understood 
what he meant. I had been long enough 
around him to know that he was looking 
within, endeavoring to comprehend the 
demon that at times rankled in his breast. 
He knew himself inseparably bound to an 
uncontrolable temper; which his excellent 
breeding, in better moments, caused him to 


72 


A Farrago 


loathe ; and which made him at times as 
melancholy as the mystery of its origin, 
development, and hold on him made him 
distrustful of himself. 

I am not fit to live among others,” he 
said, again at the window. I will live 
alone.” 

I tried to think of something to say in 
order to recall him from the misery of his 
introspection and melancholy — but what } 
I thought that cards might occupy his mind, 
and I said, Henry, will you play a few 
games of hearts or euchre or anything you 
wish 

He dropped into a chair, as much as to 
acquiesce ; but the games dragged heavily ; 
he was not thinking of cards, and played like 
a novice. 

Let us stop,” he said, after we had played 
a short time. believe I will go to bed,’' 
and he arose and started toward the door. 

Wait,” I said, thinking of his mother and 
sister. 

He turned. 


The Blood of the Holy Cross 73 

‘‘Won’t you promise to go back to New 
York with me to-morrow ?” 

“ No,” he replied, in cold resignation, “ I 
am going to drive to my mother’s farms, and 
there I shall always stay. Good night,'’ and 
he closed the door. There was the same 
chill in his voice, as if his heart were frozen 
in the contemplation of the self-imposed 
monotony of life that stretched out before 
him, and that was to expiate and render 
harmless his mysterious unruly nature. 

“ Goodnight,” I said, feeling that I had 
failed in my mission ; and, with a heavy heart, 
I wrote Mrs. Van Abering a letter, far more 
hopeful in its nature than the situation 
warranted, but I had not the courage to do 
otherwise. 


X. 

We found ourselves around the breakfast 
table about seven o’clock — Henry Van Aber- 
ing, Mr. Garrick, Mrs. Garrick, the little 
girls, the little boys, the big girls, the big 


74 


A Farrago 


boys, and myself. Henry had already told 
Mr. Garrick of his intention to drive 
that day to his mother’s farms in Logan 
County. After breakfast he said that, if I 
chose, I might accompany him. A good 
horse and a sort of old-fashioned carriage 
were ready for us at ten o’clock, when we 
said good-bye to the kith and kin of Mr. Gar- 
rick. Though Van Abering had been about 
as glum as a monk, a kind of attachment had 
grown up between him and the farmer ; and 
it was with true affection that the old man 
held his hand and said, ‘‘Good-bye” and 
“take care of yourself.” 

The sun shone warmer than on the day 
before, thawing the frosts of a long winter ; 
the North had a milder breath and blew less 
persistently ; and on hillsides and in fence cor- 
ners lingered only scanty vestiges of the snowy 
winter. We had forty miles before us ; but 
since the gloom had lifted somewhat from 
Van Abering’s spirits, and we were going 
into a country hitherto untravelled by us, 
which inspired the tingling sensation of ad- 


The Blood of the Holy Cross 7 5 

venture, the journey did not seem long or 
devoid of possible pleasure. We started, 
according to Mr. Garrick’s commands, in a 
northwestern direction, toward Logan County. 
We crossed an old moss-grown bridge that 
looked like a remnant of prehistoric times, 
beneath which the river Sangamon hummed 
its ancient music, as it did in the days when 
Abraham Lincoln plied on its eddies. A 
long and beautiful road stretched before us ; 
on either side, after the dismal death of win- 
ter, nature seemed turning again in her grave 
for a timely resurrection ; the green meadows 
contrasted strikingly with the white snow of 
the hillsides and the gloom of the sombre 
forests. 

The scene appealed to Van Abering no 
less than to me — perhaps more. He spoke 
of the regeneration of nature, and wondered 
what life would be if we could be likewise 
renewed in youth and power. His brooding 
over the strangeness of his own nature had 
made him older than he should have been 
for his years ; and he, therefore, took the 


76 


A Farrago 


scene more seriously than I. It was indeed a 
beautiful morning — different than I had 
ever seen before ; for in the city the transi- 
tion from winter to spring is not so visible. 
It was too good to last. 

Van Abering told me all that he knew 
about the extent of his mother’s land, which 
comprised between two and three thousand 
acres, being the remnant of a much larger 
tract that came into the estate during 
the life of his grandfather, Guido Andreas 
Van Abering. Beyond this, the situation of 
the land, and the name of the principal 
tenant, he knew nothing. 

One by one the miles receded in the 
distance. When one of us was cold, he 
ran along beside the carriage until the blood 
coursed in his veins with greater celerity. 
We discussed every subject from the pains 
of toothache to the supposed rights of the 
English government to grasp all the available 
territory of the earth, and the improvements 
we should make in the construction of the 
universe were the matter left in our hands. 


The Blood of the Holy Cross 

At twelve o’clock we stopped at a farm 
house, fed our horse, got something to eat ; 
and went on our journey an hour later. About 
two o’clock the sun disappeared, and clouds 
began to loiter through the sky ; at three 
we passed through a little town called 
Mount Pulaski, where we stopped awhile ; 
at four o’clock it began to grow dark and 
cold. 

Thus far we had had no difficulty in follow- 
ing the directions given us by Mr. Garrick and 
corroborated by persons along the way ; but 
now the road which we were travelling ter- 
minated in two forks leading in almost oppo- 
site directions. It was too late in the day 
to advance very far upon mere conjecture; 
and the gathering clouds, and the sharp 
winds that had risen, made us all the more 
anxious to get to our destination. There 
was but one house in sight, a hut about a half- 
mile up the road on the left, at the base of 
an immense hill. Thither we drove as it 
began to snow. It was an old log house 
that looked as ancient as the soil into which 


78 


A Farrago 


it was receding. There was one window 
facing the road, another on the other side 
had been nailed up. The addition on the 
back looked newer than the front, for the 
clay pressed between the cracks in the logs 
still retained some of its original color. 
There was no other building as far as the 
eye could see, except an old barn about fifty 
yards to the rear. A few white objects, 
like tomb-stones, peeped from the top of the 
hill which ascended almost straight. The 
road evidently had been cut through the 
beginning of this immense elevation, for it 
was walled like a cafion and rose but gradu- 
ally to the top. 

I don’t believe anybody lives there,” said 
Van Abering, as I passed through the open- 
ing in the rail fence to inquire our way. 

‘‘ Yes, surely,” said I, there is smoke com- 
ing from the rear chimney,” and I knocked 
at the front door. 

There was no response for some moments ; 
and all the while it was getting darker and 
colder. What started as a snow-fall now be- 


The Blood of the Holy Cross 79 

came a storm of sleet and hail with occasional 
gusts of rain that dashed into our faces. 
The horse began to shake with cold, and we, 
not prepared for such an unexpected change 
in the weather, were becoming wetter every 
moment. 

I knocked again, very impatiently, as the 
door opened, and a girlish voice said : — 
Goodness me ! Come in out of the rain.’' 

‘‘No,” I said, “we must go as quickly as 
possible ; but we have lost our way. Is 
anyone here who knows the roads of this 
neighborhood.” 

“ Oh yes, my grandfather ! I will call 
him,” and off she skipped to the rear of the 
house. 

“ I am afraid we can’t go any farther,” said 
Van Abering ; “ in a half-hour it will be as 
dark as midnight.” 

Presently a fat, old man came hobbling 
to the door. He looked as a bust of Homer 
would look, had Homer been better fed. 
“Well,” he said, “what is it you want to 
know.^ ” 


So 


A Farrago 


I told him where we wanted to go, and he 
smiled and said : — 

The nearest way is to drive around the 
side of the house to the barn, put up your 
horse, and go in the morning. There is a 
dreadful storm in the sky ; and you are wel- 
come here, if you will take things as we have 
them.’^ 

It was nearly impossible to proceed on our 
way, and there was such kindness in the old 
man’s voice that we took the advice and drove 
to the barn. When we arrived there, he 
came from the house with a lantern, and 
helped us attend to our horse. 

Now, come into the house,” he said, as he 
turned and started back by the path he had 
come. He was a man of almost monstrous 
proportions, but very gray and rusty in 
appearance. Like the house in which he 
lived, he seemed to belong to a by-gone age. 

We entered the dimly lighted kitchen, 
where the girl and a very old woman were 
cooking the evening meal. 

Come and sit by the fire,” said the girl. 


The Blood of the Holy Cross 8 1 

placing two chairs before a large old-fashioned 
stove that was gleaming with heat. 

We sat down, as the old man began to 
put wood on the fire. The walls of the 
room were as rough on the inside as on 
the outside ; and in several places the rain 
began to trickle through the clay-plastered 
crevices. 

‘‘ Did you come from Mount Pulaski } ” 
inquired the old woman, opening the oven 
door. 

‘'From near Decatur,” answered Van 
Abering. 

“There now, put your feet inside the 
oven,” she continued, “ they ’ll get warm 
quicker.” 

Van Abering obeyed, and it was with diffi- 
culty that he suppressed a broad smile at the 
spectacle of himself sitting there roasting 
his feet and legs. At that instant there 
was a terrible crash behind my chair, and 
I thought the hut must be falling to pieces ! 
I turned, feeling like a soldier who stumbles 
in battle and imagines himself shot. 


82 


A Farrago 


‘^Oh!” said the girl, ‘‘grandfather, you 
have scared the gentleman.” 

“ Did I } It was only wood,” said the old 
man, apologetically, standing before a huge 
arm load that he had just dropped to the floor. 

Presently, supper was prepared and we 
were invited to sit around the table. The 
lamp was taken from the shelf in the corner 
of the logs and placed in the center of the 
table. The old woman, who was very thin, 
sat at one end with the girl ; Van Abering 
and I sat on the sides ; and the old man 
occupied the other end. 

“ Oh, how it storms ! ” said the girl, look- 
ing at us sympathetically, as the wind and 
sleet and rain beat against the roof and sides 
of the house. 

“You couldn’t have gone much farther,” 
said the old man. 

“ No, I fear not,” observed Van Abering, 
as the old woman almost forced him to have 
some more rabbit. 

“You must not be bashful,” she said, 


“just make yourself at home.” 


The Blood of the Holy Cross 83 

Van Abering assured her that he was not 
bashful, and ate his supper with evident 
relish. He had never eaten at such a table 
before ; and the kindness and interest of 
these people, who in his eyes were of the 
lowest stratum, robbed him of his melancholy 
and pleased him greatly. He was constantly 
looking at the old man, in whom he seemed 
to take immediate interest — a rare thing, 
indeed, for Van Abering. There was a sort 
of homely generosity in the large mouth and 
nose, gray hair and soft voice of this rough- 
looking octogenarian that solicited confi- 
dence and made one feel welcome and safe. 
I dare say that otherwise we should have 
felt lonely and desolate ; for the storm still 
raged, the wind moaned bitterly above the 
hissing of the sleet and rain, and here we 
were in an old log house in the heart of 
Illinois. 

After we had eaten. Van Abering and I 
sat around the stove in the kitchen, while 
the old woman and the girl put away the 
supper things. Meanwhile the old man dis- 


84 


A Farrago 


appeared through a door leading into the 
front part of the house. Van Abering sat 
silent, and I was thinking how I might 
approach with impunity the question of his 
returning to New York, when the old man 
opened the door he had passed through and 
said: — 

‘‘Come in here.” 

I looked inquiringly at Henry, who was on 
his feet, going toward the door. We passed 
through a dark room and entered the old 
part of the house, where a bright fire popped 
and cracked in the fireplace, in the west side 
of the room. There was no light save that 
furnished by the fire, which was suffi- 
cient. This room was plastered and cov- 
ered with light paper. In the center stood 
a table heavily laden with an immense picto- 
rial edition of the Bible and a photograph 
album. On the walls were bric-a-brac, pho- 
tographs, and brilliant landscapes, that be- 
trayed the artistic tastes of the girl ; and in 
one corner stood a gun that suggested the 
heroic or hunting spirit of the old man. 


The Blood of the Holy Cross 8 5 

‘‘Sit down/’ said he, drawing two home- 
made rocking-chairs to the fire, and loading 
himself into a big one, evidently made espe- 
cially for him. 

‘‘ Where did you say you came from V he 
asked, filling a monstrous pipe. 

‘‘We originally came from New York,” 
answered Van Abering, who was stalking 
about the room, looking at the things. 
Presently he took the album from the table, 
came to the fire, and began to look at the 
tintypes. 

“ I suppose you don’t know any of these 
persons,” said the old man, smiling. 

“No,” said Van Abering; “but who is 
this.^” He had stopped at a pen picture 
almost worn-out with age and handling. 

“That — that is supposed to be the pic- 
ture of an Indian girl. An old comrade 
drew it years ago. 

“ Is it a drawing from life ? ” 

“ Indeed it is. She was once as alive as 
you are. I knew her well She once saved 
my life.” 


86 


A Farmgo 

From the Indians ? '' I asked. 

‘‘Yes, from her father's tribe." 

“ Have you been here so long as that ? " 
asked Van Abering, looking reverently into 
the old man’s face. 

“ My son," he replied, placing his hand on 
Van Abering’s shoulder, “ I have been here 
since 1825, only fourteen years after William 
Henry Harrison fought the Indians in 
Indiana, when these regions were a wilder- 
ness, and Indians and bears roved through 
the woods. My old comrade, who must be 
dead by this time, and I fought many a red- 
skin, had many a narrow escape from death, 
and one or the other has known nearly every 
emigrant who traveled over this road from 
that time until the railroads were built 
through here. I should have been dead 
twenty years already," he continued, good- 
humoredly ; “ but I don’t die, and every year 
that I live is better than the last." He 
leaned back in his chair, musing, and draw- 
ing from his pipe great volumes of smoke 
which hastened up the chimney. “My com- 


The Blood of the Holy Cross 87 

rade was a brave man. He loved the Indian 
girl/' he said, quite as much to himself as 
to us. 

There was a brief period in which the old 
chronicler of a by-gone age sat silent and 
with closed eyes ; doubtless he was thinking 
of the early days ; perhaps the suffering and 
hardship were forgotten now, and only the 
romance remained, colored and unified by 
many repetitions in the long years that had 
gone into the past. For a long time in the 
early years, he had been a source of informa- 
tion to emigrants, as to roads, good lands, 
dangerous passes and the like ; he had been 
sought after far and wide ; and had harbored 
many a caravan of covered wagons overtaken 
by storm, night, or hostile Indians. He was 
the last of his generation — the last to tell 
the story of an unwritten time. 

Van Abering was aflame with curiosity, 
and I was planning how to draw from the 
old man some of his early experiences. The 
girl came in and sat beside her grandfather, 
leaning her head on his broad shoulder; the 


88 


A Farrago 


flickering fire made .grotesque shadows on 
the walls ; and the wind and storm were still 
going at a merry pace ; but what cared we, 
housed beside a glorious fire, and with the 
possibility of many a thrilling tale of adven- 
ture before bedtime. 

Would you tell us something of your 
early life } ” asked Van Abering eagerly. I 
had not seen him so bright and interested 
for a long time ; his brooding — over what 
was defined in his own mind as the mystery 
of his nature, and which showed itself in un- 
controllable outbursts of violent passion — 
had wholly disappeared ; and he seemed 
greatly absorbed in the old pioneer, under 
whose narrow roof destiny had driven us for 
a night. 

I will tell you something about this 
country as it was when I first came here, and 
how I came to live here,” said the old man, 
seeing our interest, and when you get 
sleepy, wedl all go to bed.” The girl nestled 
more closely to him, and he told a story 
something as follows : — 


The Blood of the Holy Cross 89 


XL 

THE OLD man’s STORY. 

In 18 1 1, when I was three years old, my 
father left Ohio to join the United States 
army under William Henry Harrison, who 
was on his way to fight the Algonquin In- 
dians along the Wabash River. When the 
Indians were somewhat subdued, he sent for 
us — my mother, one sister, two brothers, and 
myself. We met him at the Eagle and Lion 
Tavern, on the east bank of the river, where, 
they tell me, a flourishing city now stands.* 
We stayed there until spring, when, with two 
other families, we floated in barges down the 
Wabash River to Vincennes. My father, who 
was a saddler, opened a shop and worked at 
his trade. By the time I was seventeen years 
old, my sister had married, and she, her hus- 
band and my two brothers, who were older 
than myself, had gone to the western limits 
of the state of Illinois. Meantime also my 
parents had died, and thus at the age of 


* Terre Haute. 


90 


A Farrago 


seventeen, in the year 1825, I found myself 
alone in the world, with nothing to hold me 
fast and many hopes to lure me farther west. 

One evening as I sat in front of the trading 
store (Vincennes was the principal trading 
post for miles around), a line of covered 
wagons came into the village from the north. 
A young fellow jumped from one of these and 
went into the post, while the wagons con- 
tinued on their way. 

Which is the tavern ? ” he asked me, 
when he came out. 

I told him that I worked at the tavern, and 
that I should walk there with him. 

In the course of a few hours, while we 
were together, he took a kind of fancy to me, 
and I to him. He was a handsome fellow, 
tall and muscular, had plenty of good clothes 
and some money. He told me about his boy- 
hood and his ambition to get into the West ; 
and I told him about my conditions in the 
world. 

^‘Let us strike out for Illinois together,’* 
he said. 


The Blood of the Holy Cross 9 1 

I was overtaken with such joy at this 
proposition that I agreed at once; and in 
less than two days, in a covered wagon 
drawn by a team of good horses, we were 
on our way westward. 

Although we had a rough time of it for the 
first few days, — on account of rain and our 
inability to help ourselves in this mode of 
travel, — the time passed quickly and had 
some rewards for the hardships we had to 
bear. Kent — that was my companion’s 
name — was an educated fellow, saw the 
bright side of all things, was a fine shot, and 
as brave a man as ever lived. There was 
plenty of game ; and we had a lively time, 
travelling by day, and camping wherever 
night happened to overtake us. We saw an 
Indian occasionally ; but for the first week 
none that molested us. We made our way 
through woods, over plains, across rivers, the 
best we could, following no guide but the 
daily sun and our own wayward desire to go 
west. 

One night we stopped before a very high 


92 


A Farrago 


hill. We thought then that it was a moun- 
tain ; but having approached it from a valley, 
it seemed much higher than it really was. 
There was a gradual ascent for some dis- 
tance, then, all at once, without any incline, 
the huge mass of earth seemed to shoot 
straight up into the sky, like an immense 
battlement. We might have gone farther, 
as it was not yet dark ; but it would have 
been as impossible to go over the hill as to 
go through it ; and it was too late to go 
around, for the base was very large and 
covered with an almost impenetrable forest. 
We should have to travel many miles out of 
our way to get to the other side ; and being 
tired and hungry, and within the sound of 
falling water, we decided to stop for the 
night on the spot where we stood. 

We had never halted any place where 
things kept to themselves such a mysterious 
silence. Besides the more or less continuous 
jargon of the waterfall, which could be heard 
only a short distance, everything seemed 
motionless and dead ; the trees were still, the 


The Blood of the Holy Cross 93 

air asleep, no song of birds, or cry of wild 
beasts ; and after a while the great moun- 
tain, as we thought it was then, threw over 
us a deep and heavy shadow from the rising 
moon beyond. After we had tied the horses 
for the night’s graze, cooked what game we 
had killed, and had everything in order, we 
sat down for a smoke before going to sleep. 
We did n’t say much to each other. It was 
not the kind of place to make us gay, and 
the spirit of adventure was at low tide. The 
dogs lay under the wagon already asleep, 
after a long day’s journey with many a 
chase. 

We were to sleep in the wagon that night, 
but now were lying on the grass. I was so 
tired that I was off into dreamland before I 
had carried out my part of our plan. Not 
so with Kent. Something must have been 
on his mind, perhaps there was disappoint- 
ment or homesickness ; for instead of going 
to sleep, he lay looking at the mountain, as 
the moon rose higher and higher, giving it a 
golden background and thickening the black- 


94 


A Farrago 


ness of the shadow in which we lay. Higher 
and higher rose the moon, until it seemed to 
rest on the top of the mountain, which was 
all illuminated now, except a very small 
black streak of shadow directly before us. 
In a moment the light was over us and 
through the valley, and paled the fire which 
had cooked our supper, and which, while we 
were still in the dark, might easily have been 
seen from the top of the mountain. 

Of this change in the night I saw noth- 
ing ; but Kent saw it all. I felt something 
pulling at my coat, and in an instant I was 
awake. 

‘‘ Look ! look ! cried my comrade in a 
strange voice, pointing to the top of the 
mountain. 

Against the golden moon on the very top, 
with outstretched arms on either side in the 
manner of a cross, there stood something 
that looked like the figure of a woman. 

‘‘The Holy Cross !” cried my companion. 

There it stood. What was it ? an appari- 
tion ? What did it mean ? How could it be 


The Blood of the Holy Cross 9 5 

possible in this far away world ? The Holy 
Cross stood still as stone, while the moon 
listlessly raised itself above the mountain. 
Was it somebody crucified by the Indians } 
Or might it not be the mingled effect of the 
trees and shrubbery } No, there were no 
trees and shrubbery on the east crest of the 
mountain. Were we both then under the 
influence of some hallucination.^ 

‘‘ It is gone,” exclaimed Kent. 

I am going to see what that is,” said I, 
taking my gun, and starting to run around 
the right side. It was a great distance ; but 
the moon shone bright, and I was able to go 
in a lively run. 

This is what happened to my companion 
while I was gone : — 

The night kept its silence ; the only sign 
of life being the last gleams of our fire, 
beside which Kent was now lying, and an 
occasional sigh from the tired dogs under 
the wagon. Things grew even more quiet 
and lifeless ; the dogs sighed no more, the 
fire went out, the wind did not stir, the 


96 


A Farrago 


waterfall stopped its talking, and the moon 
went behind a large cloud. 

The excitement of the vision having sub- 
sided in Kent's mind, he was about to fall 
asleep, when he thought he heard a faint 
sound, and one of the dogs came from under 
the wagon and held his head in the attitude 
of listening. There was absolute silence 
again for a moment, when a prolonged faint 
noise seemed to issue from the left of the 
mountain. This was repeated several times 
between intervals of death-like stillness. 
The sound did not fill the valley, but seemed 
to cut through the lower air, close to the 
ground, and go in different directions. Some- 
times he could scarcely hear it, then again it 
came directly toward him — once in no uncer- 
tain tones calling, Ma — ya — ka — no, Ma — 
ya — ka — no." It was not a harsh sound, and 
without growing louder seemed to have the 
mystery of becoming clearer and clearer. 
Presently it stopped, and Kent, going in the 
direction of the sound, endeavored to make 
his way to a small glade which he remem- 


The Blood of the Holy Cross 97 

bered to have seen in the moonlight, where 
he might lie in ambush and find the meaning 
of this solitary voice in the forest. 

He was within five yards of the open place 
when the moon broke like a flash from the 
clouds, and the valley was flooded with light. 
He entered the glade to see if it were clear, 
when a voice called, ‘‘Mayakano, Mayakano,” 
and an Indian girl ran towards him with out- 
stretched arms, still calling ‘‘ Mayakano, 
Mayakano.” She stopped abruptly when 
within a few feet of him, and stepped back- 
ward. 

‘‘Wait,” said Kent, in what little Indian 
he knew. 

“No, you kill us, you kill us ! ” 

“ Where are you going } ” 

“ On the mountain where my father’s 
people live. I believed it was Mayakano 
that walked in the valley,” she continued, 
and seeing that her conferee meant no harm, 
she stopped her retreat. 

“ My only brother, he was killed in battle 
here in the valley, my father is old, and 


98 


A Farrago 


there is no one to be chief when he is dead ; 
but the Great Spirit says my brother will 
come back and burn a fire in the valley. I 
watch nightly on top of the mountain, and 
invoke the Great Spirit, so (and she stood 
in the manner of a cross), as the moon rises 
over my father’s hunting grounds : to-night 
I saw the fire ; I came ; but it is not 
Mayakano, it is not Mayakano, it is some- 
body else,” and she fell to weeping. She 
was beautifully dressed after the fashion of 
her race, but she was not so dark or so 
grim-visaged, and had a voice as clear as 
crystal. 

Kent took her by the hand and said, 
‘‘ Perhaps your brother will come to-morrow.” 

Just then the mountain became alive with 
noise — cries, shouts, and the clatter of 
horses’ hoofs mingled, as if in terrible battle ! 

‘‘ Come, come,” said The Holy Cross, 
holding his hand, ‘‘or you will be killed. 
They are coming down the mountain ; come 
— faster, faster!” Although smaller than 
he, she was fleet as a deer, and nearly dragged 


The Blood of the Holy Cross 99 

him over the rough ground and through the 
trees around the right of the mountain. 
They turned at a crook in the base, stopped 
suddenly before a little knoll surrounded by 
a cluster of dwarfed trees, where The Holy 
Cross sank into the ground, saying, ‘‘Follow, 
follow ! ” When they reached the bottom 
of the crevice in the rock, she, still holding 
his hand, said, “ Listen ! ” 

The turmoil now raged through the valley. 
In as few words as possible, Kent told her 
about his companion having gone to the top 
of the mountain. 

Just as she was about to climb out of the 
cave, saying, “ I will go to save him, and 
return to you when it is coming day,'* he 
kissed her on the forehead. She turned, 
took his hand again, and looked at him, as if 
to ask, “ What does that mean ? " then she 
said, “You do not hate me 

“No, I love you ; save my companion's 
life," answered Kent, as The Holy Cross 
climbed out into the forest. 

While these things were happening to my 


100 


A Farrago 


companion (continued the old man) I had 
some very different experiences. At a dis- 
tance of some three hundred yards in a 
semi-circle to the right of the knoll which 
covered the narrow mouth of the cave, a 
well worn path, coiling around trees and 
rocks, began gradually to ascend to the top 
of the mountain. For the last twenty yards 
of the ascent, the path continued straight, 
and became much steeper, running over the 
top and descending about the same distance 
on the other side to where the table-lands 
began, and the father of The Holy Cross 
lived with his people. Thus this path resem- 
bled a huge snake lying over the mountain, 
and was known in the language of the 
Indians as ‘‘Sleeping Serpent.” It had been ' 
there as long as anyone knew, and there was 
nothing in the traditions of the old chieftain’s 
people that told of its origin. Silent it had 
lain there for many years, through winter 
and summer, famine and plenty, victory and 
defeat. The old chief had played along it 
when a boy, had killed his first game down 


The Blood of the Holy Cross i o i 

its sides, and fought his first battles amid its 
crooks and curls, until now he was an old 
man, but ‘^Sleeping Serpent” lay dreaming 
as at first. 

Ignorant of where this path led, I hurried 
along it as quickly as possible. I reached 
the top, and looked over acres of tents filed 
in long rows toward the west. Before I had 
time to retreat, hideous noises filled my ears ; 
and in an instant I was surrounded, rendered 
senseless, and with me that was all for the 
present. 

When I regained consciousness, it was 
broad daylight, and I was lying in the sun 
between Kent and The Holy Cross, who were 
rubbing me vigorously. All around us, look- 
ing over each other’s shoulders, was a throng 
of the dirtiest, most savage-looking red-skins 
I had ever seen. The Holy Cross had inter- 
ceded for us, and we were not to be killed. 

Come here to the window (said the old 
man, leading the way for Van Abering and 
me ). Do you see that hill ? ( he continued, 
pointing out into the stormy night toward 


102 


A Farrago 


the eminence we had seen on our approach 
to the log house). That is where we saw 
The Holy Cross in the moonlight ; and on 
top of the hill lived her father’s people. 

We had not been with the Indians long 
before they grew fond of us, regarding us as 
having been sent to them from the Great 
Spirit. 

Meanwhile the old chief died, and The 
Holy Cross chose as her husband my com- 
rade Kent, who became Wamaset, the chief 
of the tribe. 

During the next fifteen years the Indians 
were driven further west ; The Holy Cross 
died ; and Kent, who was now owner of these 
vast tracts of land, accompanied by the son 
The Holy Cross had borne him, returned to 
his native home — where I cannot tell you, 
I do not know. 

( The old man stretched himself, yawned, 
and said : ) Well, it ’s about bedtime now. 
To-morrow I ’ll take you on top of the hill. 


The Blood of the Holy Cross 103 

Good night. ( And we all went off to 
bed.) 

XII. 

After a good night's rest, we arose and 
found that the storm had entirely sub- 
sided. The air was cold but clear ; and after 
a few hours of sun, we should be on our way 
again toward the Van Abering farms. We 
gathered round the breakfast table with the 
little old woman, the girl, and the old 
man, whose gait was about as rapid as a tor- 
toise, but whose mind, as seen from the 
story of the night before, was still as bright 
as a cricket. 

“ After breakfast, I '11 take you to the top 
of the hill," he said, and show you where 
the Indians lived." 

The breakfast was soon finished, and the 
old man, the girl. Van Abering and myself 
left the house for the top of the hill. 
Behold ! there it stood before us, just as it 
had been described, except that many years 
of travel and work had cut a road through 


104 


A Farrago 


the right base. This road we took; and 

I 

after a long time — the old man setting the 
pace — we reached the top. There the table- 
land stretched out as far as one could see. 
In summer these were doubtless magnificent 
fields of grain, where once roamed another 
people and thrived another civilization, known 
now only in books and in the memories of a 
few remaining pioneers like the one by our 
side. 

‘‘There is where we buried The Holy 
Cross — over there,” said the old man, point- 
ing toward the edge of the precipice that 
was parallel with the log house below. 

Thither we went. 

“ The Holy Cross has been lying there a 
good many years now. It was her wish to 
be buried here on the hill where she had 
always lived. The old chief, her father, was 
buried in a tree in that direction,” and the 
old man pointed back toward the left, “at 
the head of ‘ Sleeping Serpent.' The Holy 
Cross was a beautiful girl, except that her 
forehead was a little scarred with the marks 


The Blood of the Holy Cross 105 


of the tribe/' continued the old pioneer, 
waddling ahead of us toward a few white 
stones partially hidden among the trees. 
‘‘That one is The Holy Cross’s — that tall 
stone with the three diamonds on it ; those 
were the marks of the tribe.” 

Van Abering grew white in the face. 

The old man continued : “The name Kent 
is not on the tombstone; but some other 
names — of the firm that made it, perhaps. 

We stopped before the tall slab, which 
read : — 


AAA 
V V V 

THE HOLY CROSS 
Wife of 


WAMASET, 


GUIDO ANDREAS VAN ABERING. 

“That Stone was sent here more than 
thirty years ago, and I put it up myself — ” 
“Oh! oh!” cried the girl, “grandfather, 
the gentleman, the gentleman ! ” 

Behind us Van Abering had sunk to the 
ground ! 

Like a flash I thought of the diamonds on 
the tombstone in Greenwood Cemetery. 


io6 A Farrago 

We carried him to the house ; the old man 
saying all the while, ‘‘What could be the 
trouble — what could be the trouble? No 
doubt it was climbing up the hill.” 

Van Abering soon recovered ; but he was 
hardly strong enough to continue the journey 
until the next day. He was greatly changed : 
he spoke almost nothing — only what was 
absolutely necessary ; but the deep restless- 
ness of his nature had subsided ; he seemed 
contented, and I hoped that he would be 
ready before long to return to his home. 
However else he had changed, he now seemed 
to be satisfied and decided upon his future 
course. 

The next day we made our departure. 

“You must be careful about climbing 
hills,” said the old man, little knowing what 
he had revealed. 

Van Abering made no reply, only put his 
hand in the old man’s, and came to the 
carriage. 

Our journey was a silent one: Van Aber- 
ing was neither sad nor gay, had no praises 


The Blood of the Holy Cross 1 07 

or complaints ; he seemed simply satisfied. 
In what I said, he took the interest that re- 
spect demanded, but no more. When near- 
ing the end of our journey, he asked me to 
attend to the preliminary arrangements with 
the tenant, and to say that he was not feel- 
ing well and wished to go to his room at 
once. We had no difficulty in finding the 
vast tract of land which remained of the 
estate, and the home of the chief tenant, 
where we arrived when it was growing dark. 
We were cordially received, and led into the 
house before a warm open fire, while our 
rooms were being prepared. Each of us was 
given a letter. The one to Van Abering was 
from his mother, and read in part as fol- 
lows : — 

“ My dear, dear Son : 

Come home, come home at once. . . . Rosamond’s 
marriage will not occur. We know all. . . . Come 
home before we are crushed by despair. . . . On 
your arrival, we shall all go abroad to live. Tele- 
graph and come at once. 

Your affectionate Mother.” 


io8 


A Farrago 


He held the letter between his fingers at 
the side of his chair where his arm hung 
listlessly. He was looking into the fire, as I 
read aloud the letter I had received : — 

“ This note is to tell you that Avonill died this 
morning. He was not in his right mind toward the 
end, and talked at random of his friends — princi- 
pally Henry Van Abering, whom he wanted to be 
told that everything was all right — that he died 
bearing him no ill will, and such things. Poor 
Francis ! He will be buried in Nashville, Tennessee. 
It is sad and lonely in the old house to-night. 

F aithf ully, 

William Garrick. 

Van Abering's letter dropped from his 
hand, but he did not break the silence ; 
rising, he walked falteringly to his room. It 
was the last time I ever saw him. His 
supper was brought to him ; and in the 
morning his room was empty. The country 
was searched in vain ; Henry Van Abering 
was never seen again. 


The Blood of the Holy Cross 109 

In due time I found myself again in the 
old quarters at Cambridge ; but how changed ! 
There were no more songs, music and laugh- 
ter ; the old house looked glum, and seemed 
ever to remind me of the happy times I had 
spent there. The remaining days of my col- 
lege life flickered quickly and uneventfully 
by; and now, as I recall these images, a 
goodly number of years have sauntered into 
the past. The last I heard of Mrs. and 
Miss Van Abering was that they were living 
in England. The good-hearted Garrick be- 
came a doctor, as he wished ; and is now 
practicing in Newark, New Jersey. The 
madame and the old naval officer (who, had he 
been more worthy the confidence of youth, 
might have prevented these unfortunate 
events — and thus this story) were divorced 
in their old age. O for shame ! 

In the summer of 1897, I visited the 
Exposition at Nashville. Before leaving the 
city, I wandered one sunny afternoon to 
the cemetery, and put some flowers on a 
little mound that covered the body of 


no A Farrago 

John Francis Avonill. Poor Avonill! He 
had his faults, to be sure ; but who will 
throw the first stone ! How quiet now — no 
smile — no story — no song ! He had a light 
and cheerful soul, and took life gayly enough. 
Yet who will blame him for having smiled 
where others wept, in a world where there 
is so much sorrow ? 


THE MYSTERY OF LOVE 


Love has no law'^ 

Portugese Proverb. 


i 



THE MYSTERY OF LOVE 
NE Saturday night some winters ago, 



several fellows were sitting around in 
my room in Harvard College telling stories. 
They were all Harvard men, and well ac- 
quainted, and seemed to feel no restraint 
therefore in doing what gave them the most 
enjoyment — or release from pain, as one of 
the pessimists in the company was accus- 
tomed to put it ; some were smoking, their 
feet cocked up on a level with their heads ; 
one lay on the divan, and another had got 
down on the floor ; it was a thoroughly Bohe- 
mian evening. 

They had been telling stories — incidents 
which they had read, or seen in their own 


A Farrago 


1 14 

lives. On the whole it was a very enjoyable 
evening. I ought not to say this myself per- 
haps, but since the others are not here, I 
venture the egotism. Nearly everyone had 
contributed something — a tale of love or ad- 
venture (principally the former), a volume of 
smoke, or a convivial disposition, which is 
perhaps the most indispensable of the lot. 
It was about eleven o’clock, and a kind of a 
lull had fallen over the fellows, they ^^had 
run out,” as the expression goes. 

Of the five persons present besides myself, 
there was one who could not properly be 
called a fellow” ; for that is an appellation 
given to college students. This man had 
been graduated for some years already ; but 
despite this fact and others — that he was no 
longer very young, and was an instructor in 
the college — he seemed unwilling to break 
off his intimate association with the students, 
some of whom were even in his classes. 
His name was Morgan. The name some- 
what fitted him. Though he was not heavy 
in body or extremely grave in mind, there 


The Mystery of Love 1 1 5 

was yet a disposition of reserve or honesty 
or something about him which prevented 
gusto and won belief in what he said. 
Morgan was sitting on the settee in one 
corner, smoking too. He had been feeling 
absently about in his vest pockets, perhaps 
to rest his fingers or for something to do, 
for men are always playing with their 
pockets, when presently he drew out a dingy 
little piece of paper folded up. He had not 
said much all evening. But that was nothing 
strange, for he never had very much to say. 
He had looked a bit surprised when he 
drew the dingy little note from his pocket, 
and now sat musingly puffing and looking 
at it. 

Morgan,'' said one of the fellows sitting 
on the other side of the room, it 's your 
turn now." The one who said this was from 
the West, and generally spoke in the man- 
ner nearest the end of his tongue. *‘You 
have n't said a word all evening. You've got 
to do your share too." 


A Farrago 


1 16 

^‘Yes, let us hear from the faculty/* the 
other fellows shouted. 

Morgan sat silent for a moment, still look 
ing at the little piece of paper. 

Well, I will tell you a little story,” he be- 
gan, his face lighting up as if surprised at 
himself that such a thing as a story from 
him should be a reality. It does n’t amount 
to much, it’s just a little thing. 

Some years ago, a family by the name of 
Hayes lived in Burlington, Iowa. There 
were a father, mother and two daughters. 
Florence, the older of the two, was a fine- 
looking girl. She was more than fine look- 
ing; there was something of the statuesque 
— of the majestic in her; she was beautiful. 
She was a very active sort of a girl too, 
always doing something, and doing it in a 
manner which showed both grace and good 
sense throughout. 

‘‘ When Florence was about eighteen years 
old, she began to receive a fellow by the 
name of La Rose, a brother of one of her 
bosom friends. Young La Rose was of 


The Mystery of Love 1 1 7 

French extraction ; his ancestors for a few 
generations had lived in this country, in 
Burlington, and had been very successful 
business men ; they had saved their money 
through these generations, so that about this 
time the father of young La Rose was ac- 
counted a very, very rich man — at least for 
Burlington. Young La Rose was somewhat 
older than Florence — about four years, I 
should say. 

‘^The father of the girl seemed to think 
that she was somewhat too young to see 
company very regularly, and fearing that she 
might take the young man’s calls too seri- 
ously, decided to send her away, believing 
that she would soon forget him. And then, 
too, the father of the girl was doubtful as to 
the moral stability of the young suitor. The 
girl was sent to Wellesley. She stayed 
three years, and apparently did forget young 
La Rose ; she had spent the vacations at 
home, and so far as anyone knew she 
did n’t think anything about him, or he 
about her.” 


A Farrago 


ii8 

At this stage of the story, Morgan re- 
lighted his pipe, twisted about into a comfort- 
able position, and went on : — 

‘‘One summer about a year after the girl 
had quitted college, she went to Indiana to 
visit a girl friend of her Wellesley days. She 
had had a pleasant time it seemed, and was 
on her way back to Burlington, to be an 
‘ at home ' girl, as she had been for the past 
year. The train was drawing in a north- 
western direction through the state of Illi- 
nois. It had been a somewhat long and 
tiresome journey; there were frequent stops, 
and, almost as bad, no parlor car, nothing 
but the dirty, hot day coaches. A good 
many people were on the train too, and that 
seemed to make it doubly hot and disagree- 
able. She thought if she could have a 
coach alone, it would not be so bad ; but 
there were perhaps a hundred other people 
thinking the very same thing. She did, 
however, have a whole seat to herself. 

“After the usual shuffle of getting out 
and in at one of the stops, there were several 


The Mystery of Love 1 19 

persons without seats when the train started 
again. One of these, a young man, seeing 
half of Florence’s seat unoccupied ( and per- 
haps her pretty face, too ), asked if he might 
occupy the seat with her — if she had any 
objections. 

‘ I prefer to sit alone,’ said Florence, not 
even looking up. 

The young fellow walked away. 

It was not very long before he came 
back and asked again if he might have half 
the seat — if she had any objections. 

‘“Yes, I have objections,’ she said in a 
tone which was anything but inviting. 

“ It is almost extraordinary why he should 
have insisted upon sitting by her, for the 
fellow was of good breeding, I think. But 
it seemed that he must sit by her, it seemed 
that something was driving him ; it is true 
that he was tired, but then something drew 
him toward her, too. He felt that he must 
sit by her, so in a little while he asked 
again. 

“ ‘ Well,’ said the girl, perhaps forgetting 


120 


A Farrago 


her Wellesley training, < if you must sit here, 
all right,' and she reluctantly moved her 
valise and herself next to the window. 

‘‘‘Thank you,' said the young man, as he 
dropped into the seat. 

“ They had not gone very far, when the 
young man asked where she was going. He 
felt that he must not let her slip entirely 
away, he felt that he must ask her. 

“ ‘ Down the road a piece,' she answered. 

“ ‘ What place } ' 

“‘Oh, just down the road a piece.' She 
did not want to tell, she did not want to 
talk, she was tired, and then she didn’t 
know the young man anyway. 

“‘I'm going to get off at Burling- 
ton. Do you know anybody there ? ' he 
asked. 

“ ‘ Yes.' 

“ ‘Very many ? ' 

“‘Yes, quite a number,' she said, a little 
less snappish. 

“ ‘ Do you know anybody there by the 
name of Hayes ? ' 


The Mystery of Love 


I2I 


Florence repeated the name slowly, 
^ Hay — es ? Yes, I know a family by that 
name/ 

‘‘ ‘ Have they any daughters ? ' asked the 
young man. 

‘‘ ‘ Let me see,’ said Florence, turning her 
face toward the window, to hide an expres- 
sion which might betray her bewildered curi- 
osity, ‘ I believe they have ; ’ and then she 
stole a look at the strange young man. 

*** Is one of them named Florence ? ’ 

‘‘‘Yes,’ said Florence, this time stealing 
a good long look. She believed that she did 
not altogether dislike the young man. 

“The stranger didn’t say anything for 
a few moments, then drawing a letter from 
his pocket, said, ‘This is for her — ’ 

“ ‘ Oh it ’s mine ! it ’s mine ! ’ shouted 
Florence, grabbing the letter from his 
hand. 

“ The young man was amazed, so much so 
that he simply sat still and said nothing. 
By the time he had pulled his wits together 
and thought some awful things about the 


122 


A Farrago 


girl, she had read the letter and was ex- 
plaining that her name was Florence Hayes 
and that the letter was for her. It was 
a letter of introduction from a very good 
friend. 

‘‘They reached Burlington. The young 
man stayed in the city a few days, spending 
not a little of his time at Florence’s home. 
Never mind what the young man’s business 
was, and I believe I have forgotten anyway, 
but it happened that after that time he 
visited Burlington very frequently. He was 
of good family, and well known by friends of 
the girl. He began to think a great deal of 
her, and she of him. 

“ About a year rolled by while things 
were formulating themselves in the affect- 
ions of these two young people, and it was 
finally announced that they were to be 
married. The day was set, the invitations 
were sent out. It was to be a fashionable 
wedding, with such numbers as the best 
form of the time and place would permit. 
The young man lived about a hundred miles 


The Mystery of Love 


123 


away. He was to arrive only a few hours 
before the ceremonies, which were to be 
performed at high noon. 

‘‘ Florence and the young man had often 
talked about their incident in the railroad 
train, and how it seemed that they really 
belonged to each other even if he had had 
no letter of introduction. The young man, 
in his optimistic view of life, felt that she 
was intended for him ; that his strange 
unrestful feelings when he first saw her 
showed that, in the righteous organization 
of the world, she was to be his. They 
both felt that something had guided them 
together. 

‘‘ There was a great deal of work prepar- 
ing for the wedding, everybody was tired 
out, Florence more than all the rest — and 
why not ? Think of the worry to the bride 
that all should go well ; of the serious medi- 
tation which such an important step must 
call forth when it comes to be realized that 
you are really going to be married, that you 
are not day-dreaming any more, that the 


124 


A Farrago 


very dress which is to be worn once and 
never again hangs ready, that you have of a 
sudden been thrown into almost painful 
prominence, that a new vista of life opens 
before you, into which your vision goes but 
a pace and is unsteady — that you are to 
become a wife. Florence was tired. 

‘^Jeanne La Rose, the sister of the young 
man who had occasionally called on Florence 
before she went to college, had been a con- 
stant, bosom friend of hers from her child- 
hood. She was at Florence’s home this day, 
the day before the marriage. It was about 
one o’clock in the afternoon when Jeanne La 
Rose started home. 

‘ I believe I’ll go with you,’ said Florence, 
^ there’s so much commotion about the house 
that I can’t rest. I must get away until 
to-morrow, I am tired.’ 

Jeanne was very glad, and expressed her 
belief that the change for the night would 
give the necessary rest. With but little 
delay, Florence and Jeanne started in a car- 
riage to the latter’s home, which was a fine 


The Mystery of Love 


125 


country house just a little out of town, while 
the maids and servants bustled about noisily 
preparing the wedding home. 

‘‘ It was about three o'clock in the after- 
noon when Florence was lying in the ham- 
mock in a dark, shady place on the lawn. 
Jeanne had been reading to her, but Flor- 
ence's eyes closed and opened alternately as 
if she were keeping awake with some effort. 
Once when she closed her eyes, Jeanne 
stopped reading and allowed her to fall asleep. 
Jeanne went into the house. Florence 
slept. 

“ She had been sleeping about twenty 
minutes, when young La Rose came down 
the path and took the chair vacated by his 
sister. He did not awaken Florence, he just 
sat there and looked at her. He had seen 
her many times in the last two years, for 
she had often been with his sister here at 
their home ; he had been indifferent to 
her and she to him, no feeling whatever 
had existed between them. But now he sat 
looking at her. Presently, bending his head 


126 


A Farrago 


close to hers, he said, in a low voice, 
^Florence/ She did not open her eyes. 
‘ Florence,' he repeated softly. This time 
she opened her eyes. He did not move 
back, she did not move either. He said a 
few words to her, and they both got up and 
walked back towards the garden. Florence 
had said nothing all this time, she said 
nothing, now she did not even look surprised 
at this conduct of La Rose though he had 
not approached anything like it before, 
he had always been proper in everything. 
What was it } 

They disappeared in the garden. 

That night the county clerk and a minis- 
ter were aroused, and at midnight they were 
married — La Rose and Florence.” 

Here Morgan stopped. His pipe was out, 
all the pipes were out, the fellows had been 
listening. 

Well, that’s a strange story. Didn’t she 
ever say anything to the other fellow about 
it ? ” asked one. 


The Mystery of Love 


127 


‘‘Yes, she sent him a note that night,” 
said Morgan, playfully twirling his pipe. 

“Well, what became of the other fellow.^” 
asked another. 

“ Oh, the other fellow ! ” continued Morgan, 
as if a little surprised that anyone should 
ask of him, “ why he got sick and nearly died 
— he did die — in a way. While he was ill, 
the mother and sister of the girl nursed him 
very tenderly. But it was too much for him ; 
you see he was in love with her. The mother 
and sister never had any more to do with the 
girl after that.” 

Morgan began to unfold the dingy little 
piece of paper he had held in his hand all the 
time, and said, “ This is the note she sent to 
the fellow that night.” 



WHY SOME SCHOOLMISTRESSES 
DON’T MARRY 


My age aitd tastes are no more the same.^' 

Horace. 



t 



WHY SOME SCHOOLMISTRESSES 
DONT MARRY* 


S OME years ago, while I was yet a prepar- 
atory student, I met a young man by the 
name of Roberts, who was preparing at 
Exeter for Harvard. It chanced that Roberts 
and I spent a portion of one summer together 
at Marblehead, a fine coast above Boston 
Harbor, at the head of Massachusetts Bay. 
Roberts had graduated that year from Exeter, 
and was now looking forward to four years of 
hard study mixed with some foot-ball practice 


* I am not responsible for the facts in this story. I am 
only responsible for the manner in which they are told, 
and for the title. The reader may judge for himself 
whether or not the title is well taken. — M. E. 


132 


A Farrago 


and five o’clock tea in Cambridge. He was a 
fine fellow, a sort of sympathetic young 
man. He easily found interest in my troubles 
in life and was willing to tell me his. 

I had not been with Roberts very long 
before I knew that there was some paramount 
question in his life which needed settlement 
before he could be at peace with himself and 
the world. He was a good-looking fellow, 
and had means and ambition to make some- 
thing of life ; but withal there was something 
wanting. 

One fine evening, after we had been out 
for a delightful roll in the surf, and after we 
had had dinner and were settled comfortably 
on the great veranda of his mother’s summer- 
house, Roberts had it on his mind again ; he 
had to tell. He was in love. Now that was 
nothing strange, I might have thought as much, 
for the actions of a man in love are always 
unnatural — anomalous. Love is positively 
the one thing which does not seem to follow 
law at all. Some lovers act thus and others 
so, apparently when all other conditions are 


Why some Schoolmistresses dorit Mar'ry 133 

equal. For the same reason, say disappoint- 
ment, one fellow will strive to get even by 
making a great mark in the world, while 
another will try to find out how much cham- 
pagne he can drink, and how utterly unworthy 
of the woman he can make himself. 

Roberts was in love, I said. But the 
trouble with him was not disappointment. 
He loved the girl and she loved him. I was 
about to ask where the trouble lay, but it 
was not necessary. A man in this condition 
will talk if you give him time. 

Roberts had lighted a fresh cigar. ‘‘ You 
see,” he said, what ’s a fellow to do ? ” Then 
he puffed a bit. I Ve got four years in 
college yet, and she 's as old as I am now,” 
he continued, as if she might be younger if 
he hadn’t the college years before him. 
‘‘ It ’s an awful long time to wait.” 

I believe I made some encouraging remark 
to the effect that time flies. I was about to 
use the Latin expression, but I thought 
Roberts might not take it seriously. 

‘'I know,” he said, after a pause; ‘‘but 


134 ^ Farrago 

it ’s a long time, and the worst of it is the 
girl’s poor.” 

‘‘Then you are surely marrying her for 
love, not money.” 

“Yes, yes, that’s all right; but how’s she 
going to get a living until we get married ? 
She has a good education, she only lacked one 
year of graduating at Smith. I would like to 
help her, so she wouldn’t need to do any- 
thing, but she won’t let me till we’re married, 
she says. What ’s a fellow to do } ” 

“ Could she teach school ? ” I asked. 

“She wants to,” said Roberts, “but I 
don’t like the idea. I suppose we’ll have 
to come to it sooner or later though. I have 
a friend who could get her a good position, 
I think ; if I could but bring myself to think 
that it wouldn’t be too hard on her. You 
see, she’s such a child.” 

We sat on the veranda until about eleven 
o’clock, when I left for the hotel. 

It wasn’t very many days until the girl 
with whom Roberts was in love came to 
Marblehead. She was a little body with 


Why some Schoolmistresses don't Marry 135 

whom one might easily have fallen into 
Roberts’s condition. She was not as tall as 
the figures of the French fashion plates, yet 
she was tall enough, had light hair, and a 
fine gentle face. She was not quick in her 
movements ; one could easily tell that from 
her eyes ; they were large, and moved 
leisurely, but very interestingly. 

Roberts had a fine time while she stayed. 
She must have thought a good deal of him, 
for he was master of every situation. She 
would not have the responsibility of planning 
anything ; anything he wished to do pleased 
her. He often wanted to be especially 
pleasant to her, but he could only be that 
by being most pleasant to himself. 

I felt a little guilty once about the school- 
teaching suggestion. One day while Roberts 
was busy at something for a short time, I 
took a stroll with her on the beach. She 
said she did n’t like to go very near the 
water, because the ocean seemed such a 
terrible thing that it frightened her. 

'^Jack wrote to me about you,” she said. 


136 


A Farrago 


swinging her arms together, and looking up 
at me apologetically. 

I asked what he had said, if she cared to 
tell. 

‘‘Oh ! he just said he told you about us — 
about him and me.” After a short pause, 
she continued appealingly, still swinging her 
arms in a girlish way, “Don't you think I 
could teach school ? ” 

I said that I thought she could, but I 
confess I didn’t think so at all. She was 
such a mild, wistful, little creature, wanting 
in everything that might approach sternness, 
rigidity, or discipline. I said, “ little.” She 
was not little, but her naive manners, 
conversation, and mode of thought, made 
her seem little to me — in fact to every- 
one. 

After the girl left and the earth again 
became an ordinary thing to Roberts, I met 
him one day, and we had another chat. 

“I thought at first,” he said, “that it was 
lack of individuality in her, but it can ’t be 
that,” he continued, looking at me as if I 


Why some Schoolmistresses dorit Marry 137 

should immediately consent that it was not 
that. 

He did not give any reason why it could 
not be lack of individuality ; but I knew a 
reason ; simply because she was different 
with Roberts than with other men. She 
was always, and with all persons, a child 
— nothing more. But she could not help 
that, and did not seem to have any con- 
sciousness that she ought to try to hide it. 
But one must not forget that children, too, 
have individuality — sometimes more than 
grown-up people. Yet with Roberts she had 
not a spark of it ; she was in love with him. 

Roberts wasn’t a very good companion 
after the girl left. She unfitted him for 
other people’s society, I did n’t interest him 
much any more ; but then, neither did any- 
body else. In one respect, however, he was 
somewhat better, for he saw his way clear 
now. The girl had been rejoiced at the idea 
of teaching school, and ‘‘waiting for him,” 
as she said, and he had brought himself 
around to submit to the inevitable. 


138 


A Farrago 


In a week I left for college again ; but as 
I was not at that time going to Harvard, 
Roberts and I parted, promising to meet the 
next year at Marblehead. 

The year passed, as years always do. I 
had heard from Roberts several times, and it 
was somewhat through the influence of his 
letters during this year that I afterwards 
went to Harvard myself. 

I was somewhat late in getting to Marble- 
head the next year. I went late on purpose, 
with the intention of going directly to college 
when the season closed. I received a telegram 
from Roberts that he would meet me at the 
Adams House in Boston, that he would wait 
till I came. I reached Boston late at night, 
and went directly to the Adams House. 
Roberts had registered that day. But as it 
was very late, I retired for the night without 
seeing him. 

We met in the morning. We were very, 
very glad to see each other. But to my 
sorrow, the poor fellow had something troub- 
ling him again. 


Why some Schoolmistresses don t Marry 139 

You are the only person,” he said, sadly, 
at breakfast that morning, "'whom I have 
told about Miss , and my caring some- 

thing for her.” 

'‘Well,” I said, "I haven’t said anything 
to anybody about it ; besides I did n’t know 
that it was a secret. Believe me I haven’t 
said a word — ” 

"No, no,” he interrupted, "you misunder- 
stand, I know you have n’t said anything to 
anybody, but it wouldn’t matter if you had ; 
that isn’t it.” He was silent awhile, playing 
with the food rather than eating it. 

"Why don’t you eat something.^” I sug- 
gested. But he didn’t seem to hear me. 

" Read that,” he said, handing me a 
letter. 

" Well, but this is from a girl,” I said^ 
looking at the envelope. 

" I know it is, ” answered Roberts. 
" Can’t you read girl’s writing.^” 

The letter was from the girl who had not 
had any individuality the year before, and 
who had been delighted at the idea of teach- 


140 


A Farrago 


ing school, and waiting for my friend. She 
had taught school, and was still waiting. I 
read the letter aloud, thinking there might be 
something my friend wished to explain, for I 
was not conversant with the latest develop- 
ments in their affections. I began : — 

‘‘ ‘ Dear Mr. Roberts — ’ ” 

The devil ! ’’ interrupted my companion, 
‘‘she used to call me. Jack — yes. Jack! Now 
think of that, ‘Dear — Mr. — Roberts,* it*s 
an outrage I ” 

I paused a moment, then began again, 
repeating the “ Dear Mr. Roberts *’ in order 
to get a good start and read right through. 
My friend looked up in a questioning express- 
ion which very much resembled the weather 
when it looks like it might rain, snow, be 
cloudy, or bright — all within the next fifteen 
minutes. 

“ ‘ I have received your last very estimable 
letter,* ** I continued to read. 

“ ‘ Your — last — very — estimable — let- 
ter,* think of that ! ** 

I continued : “ ‘ It is with the most pro- 


Why some Schoolmistresses dorit Marry 14 1 


found gratitude that I have the pleasure of 
seeing you soon again.’ ” 

‘ Most profound gratitude/ ” growled 
Roberts. ‘‘ She used to say, ‘ Dear, dear 
Jack, we’ll soon be together again — won’t 
we } ’ Now, * most profound gratitude.’ ” 

I went on : ‘‘ ‘ Instead of yachting and 
tennis this year, I hope to devote some of my 
stay at the shore on my Greek and Latin. 
I think it is in the highest degree essential.’ ” 

‘ In the highest degree essential ! ’ 
raged Roberts. ‘‘ I don ’t mind the Greek 
and Latin, if it must be; but think of, Gn 
the highest degree essential.’ Heaven save 
us!” 

I continued to read : ‘ But surely you are 

familiar with the highly proverbial adage.’ ” 

‘‘That will do,” interrupted Roberts, ‘Ghat 
last is more than I can stand or understand. 

‘ Proverbial adage,’ Great Scott ! Please read 
the rest to yourself.” 

I read it through, and handed it back to 
him. 

“Think of such an ending, too, as, ‘your 


142 


A Farrago 


friend/ snarled Roberts, as he jerked open 
the letter, when she used to say, ‘ good-by, 
dear Jack,' or something else like that/’ 
He threw himself back in his chair, so forget- 
ful, in his present feeling, of where he was 
that he began to load his pipe. 

How long has she been teaching now ? ” 
I asked. 

'‘One year; just think — such form, such 
dignity, such stiffness, such propriety — all 
in one year, too ! She ’s ruined for life ! Do 
you think I want to spend my days with 
such an iceberg ? ” 

" How long will she have to continue to 
teach yet before — ” 

" ' Continue to teach,’ repeated Roberts, 
interrupting me, "forever so far as I am 
concerned.” 

We left that breakfast table years ago. 
The girl is teaching yet. 

Heartless fate ! it was the school’s, not 
the girl’s fault. 


MARY 


‘ . she lovedi still for the sake of livings 

for the heart is hungry too''' 

Les Mise rabies. 


MARY 

I T was in the autumn that the doors of a 
small Western college were opened 
again. It was one of those little college 
towns far distant enough from any great 
centre of activity to be a world unto itself. 
The news of the outer world, with the latest 
prima donnas^ politicians, and the newest 
novels, seldom penetrated its miles of sur- 
rounding forests. The only intrusions made 
by a knowledge of distant places, of living 
celebrities and their deeds, came through a few 
of the professors who had travelled some 
and studied at universities, and through a 
few weekly and monthly publications that 


146 


A Farrago 


were placed in the college library. What 
interested the lads and lasses, besides an 
occasional ramble through the woods or a 
drive in the country, did not extend beyond 
the quiet limits of the sequestered town, 
where the God-fearing professors expounded 
ancient and classic lore (and scarcely any- 
thing else). The college weekly was their 
New York Sun ; the president of the college, 
the chief executive of their government; the 
town lawyers, their Websters and Calhouns ; 
and each other, their friends ( and sometimes 
sweethearts). There were no great buildings 
to hide the beauties of sunset or hinder the 
cool breezes of summer. The town was on 
an eminence, commanding a view of the 
surrounding forests, which at the horizon 
seemed a massive wall against the rough and 
rugged world. It is perhaps these protec- 
tions ^Trom the madding crowd’s ignoble 
strife” that make the graduates of a small 
secluded college cherish the sweetest memo- 
ries of these idealistic years in the romantic 
time of life. 


Mary 


147 


At the beginning of this college year, a 
few of the old graduates had come back. 
Many new faces appeared about the rooms 
and buildings. All the classes would be as 
large as the year before (which would not 
be very large). Everybody was shaking 
hands with everybody else ; and many plans 
for another happy year of college life were 
being made, amid the best and truest good 
will to be found anywhere on earth. 

A young fellow by the name of Percy 
Clayton, about whom this memory twines, 
was now a junior. He was a good-hearted 
fellow, and everybody liked his open and 
courteous manner. As a student he was 
fair, steady, and reliable, though not bril- 
liant. Like many of his fellows, his home 
was in the country, where he had spent the 
vacation just ended. He was glad to get 
back to college, for he had already learned 
of better and greater possibilities than were 
open to him on the farm ; and behind his 
smile and continued good humor there was a 
solemn desire some day to win a place in the 


148 


A Farrago 


world of affairs. Every year that he had 
returned to college enriched his vague 
notion of things better than he had known, 
and filled him at times with the soberest 
thoughts, which often cleared his face of 
smiles and subdued his spirits into melan- 
choly. Like most of the older students, 
Clayton was now helping the newcomers 
through the ordeal of entering college. ( In 
this matter there is, perhaps, as much cere- 
mony in a small college as in a large one. 
It is no additional expense to the college, 
and lends not a little dignity where much is 
needed.) 

At one end of a long corridor which leads 
into some of the recitation rooms, and where 
the students matriculate, there stood a young 
lady with a paper in her hand and an expres- 
sion of bewilderment in her face. She had 
evidently gone partially through the ceremony 
of entering, but did not know what to do 
next. She was a rather pretty girl, somewhat 
pale, and slenderly proportioned. In a few 
moments Clayton introduced himself — the 


Mary 


149 


upper-classmen often took this liberty in 
these perplexing times to new students — 
and offered his assistance, which the girl 
accepted with becoming grace. 

What is your name } ” enunciated the 
fat Doctor of Divinity who was registrar. 

^‘Mary said the girl, in a gentle 

voice. 

Clayton liked this girl, and when he walked 
to his room that night from the post office, 
where the fellows generally congregated, he 
could not shake her from his thoughts. But 
perhaps he didn’t try very hard. A few 
weeks passed, but he did not forget her, in- 
stead unconsciously watched her very closely ; 
and didn’t feel as comfortable as perhaps he 
ought when she seemed pleased with the 
conversation of others. She did not have 
that effusive smile when she spoke which 
both wins and loses quickly ; but rather wist- 
fully, looked full yet shyly at him, and allowed 
her large brown eyes to linger a moment in 
his, as he passed. This was not art, though 
Clayton could have told no difference if it 


150 A Farrago 

had been. He was one of those honest lads 
to whom the coquette and true woman are 
the same. In his mind he condemned the 
former and praised the latter; but in the 
world of reality he could not distinguish ; he 
had not had any occasion as yet to be 
schooled in that bitter school which teaches 
this distinction, and which too often goes to 
the other extreme and stamps all as false and 
selfish. 

Clayton called very regularly. She was 
the kind of girl, he thought, that developed 
his better nature. She was quiet and gentle, 
never given to passionate exaltations of any 
sort. She would have been easy clay for a 
wicked potter ; it seemed fortunate, therefore, 
for her as for him that they had met. They 
studied, strolled, and played tennis together. 
Where one was invited, it was understood 
that the other would need to be. Often 
when away from the view of their fellows, 
she would look at him with that admiration 
which was not gushing, but simple and 
unaffected, and which he was human and 


Mary 


iSi 

innocent enough to believe a very uncommon 
occurrence in human affairs. 

That year passed, and they separated for a 
few months. Clayton went back to the farm, 
and Mary to her home, which was in a small 
town about eighty miles from the college. 
Her father kept the hotel of the town, and 
was a well-known and respected man through- 
out the neighborhood. During that summer 
many letters were exchanged reassuring each 
of the other’s affection. About the middle 
of the summer, Clayton visited the girl’s 
home and had a pleasant time. Her parents 
were agreeable ; they were not wealthy, yet 
comfortably fixed, respected and gentle 
people. As he was about to take his depart- 
ure, he found that he had unconsciously got 
himself in love. He had never had any 
designs upon the girl, he had gone with her 
simply because he liked her company. But 
unknown to him, there began to be a demand 
in his life that no one but her could satisfy. 
He was sure now that with him the game 
was up. Thus it was arranged, but not with- 


152 


A Farrago 


out many earnest conversations, that Mary 
should become his bride after he had gradua- 
ted and to some extent won a place in the 
world. He returned home without care and 
in high spirits. 

They returned to college in the fall, and it 
was the same with them as the year before. 
They grew up side by side, as the happy 
months glided by, became used to each other’s 
ways, neither being independent of the other. 
At last commencement came, and they were 
to separate for — neither knew how long. 
Clayton went to Chicago and entered a law 
office, and Mary went home to live in the 
hope of that bright but indefinite day. 

The birds sang again and the sun shone a 
second time on the summer’s verdure since 
their parting. Clayton had visited once ; but 
could not come this summer, for he was 
making his way by hard efforts. Letters 
came, but not so frequently as at first, and as 
time went on they became hurried and strange. 
The girl’s trust was great else she would 
have feared. Her mother often spoke to her 


Mary 


153 


about the matter, but she would only say, 
‘‘ He will come when it is time," and go 
about her tasks as usual. Another summer 
passed, but neither Clayton nor letters came 
again. Mary's face turned paler with the 
winter’s snow. Her mother had told her as 
gently as it was possible ; but she would not 
believe. She became weak, then sick. When 
she arose from her illness, her voice was 
changed, her face sad, and her eyes fixed and 
uncertain. 

To those who make a business of flirta- 
tion, who swear love to a different person 
every change of the moon, this would have 
been a matter lightly disposed of. This 
would have been one petty idol gone for a 
world of others. Let none such ridicule. In 
this artless girl there was a relentless con- 
science as pure as snow; and an affection 
that was everlasting. Rare enough jewels, 
indeed, in this practical world. The just 
often perish on what the wicked prosper. 

Some days, when footsteps sounded, she 


154 


A Farrago 


would go to the door and look out ; but it 
would only be her father. 

Father, did you see him to-day } Maybe 
if you would speak to him, he would come. 
I saw him once, but he would n’t stop. 
Father, you speak to him. Tell him that it 
is the same as it used to be — that’s all.” 
Then the father would take her in his arms, 
for she was a child again, and smooth her 
snow-white forehead. 

Father, I don’t ask him to stay long, if 
he is busy. Sometimes he comes up to that 
door; but when I want to go to him, he 
waves his hand and goes away. You speak 
to him, father.” 

The breast on which this child lay heaved 
with feeling no less than hers. “Yes, I will 
speak to him,” her father would say, “ I will 
speak to him.” 

“Don’t you love me any more ? ” she would 
often ask with that ineffable expression which 
shows the starving heart, but which the 
father’s love could not satisfy. 

Thus she lived and dreamed as months 


Mary 


IS5 

passed by, as her father died, as years passed 
by, until one winter they laid her little body 
beneath a mound by the side of her father ; 
and then it snowed a long time, and the im- 
maculate shroud covered their graves. 

On one of Chicago’s boulevards there 
stands a palace. Its richness and majesty 
are ever quiet and lonely, and no children 
play around its doors. There comes forth 
every morning a richly clothed, yet a bent 
and humble man. He had married well in 
the eyes of the world, for money and for 
station, but for no more. He had lived this 
life for years ; but often when sorrow came 
through distrust and hate where trust and 
love should have been, he saw a figure come 
and go. It was the memory of the girl who 
stood in the corridor back in the olden golden 
glory of his college days. 



Vvi 


IN THE HOUSE OF CONTENTMENT 


sweet Content, where is thy mild abode ? ” 

Barnabe Barnes. 















IN THE HOUSE OF CONTENTMENT 


I T will be forgiven me, I hope, for writing 
on a stock idea in literature. The con- 
siderations involved here have been often 
written about, I know ; but then everyone 
has a right to his say ” ; and so long as 
one’s books are never likely to be used as 
texts in schools, or required reading in liter- 
ary societies, there will be at least no very 
great imposition. It may be, perchance, that 
we can hit upon some new avenue of approach 
by which we shall come more directly to the 
castle of everyone’s dreams, and see it as it 
appears in the glimmer of this lantern, 
which is no brighter than others, only 
different. 


1 6 o A Farrago 

There is no formula of happiness with 
which anyone need try to buy off the dis- 
enchanting features of life. Experience is 
always bought at a high figure ; and all the 
optimistic babble in the world will not heal 
the wounds of sorrow that flow ever and 
anon. Life is a tragedy. The death of the 
hero is all that tragedy requires, and every 
man is hero of his own life's story. To 
think about life honestly and with a degree 
of insight is no child’s play. Do what one 
will, there will come a time — not afar off! 
— when he shall be only so much decaying 
matter, which, to state the truth bluntly, 
must be buried or burned not to inoculate the 
living with disease. It seems as if we had 
been asleep, from the beginning of time, in 
the semi-conscious cradle of infancy ( for we 
cannot remember when we were not ) ; and 
one day awaking suddenly from this lethargy, 
we looked out at the window for a moment, 
then fell back again to doze in the nirvana 
of eternity. And this moment was life. 

Not long ago I heard a gentleman make a 


In the House of Contentment 1 6 1 

speech who had been for twenty years a 
member of the Senate of The United States. 
The multitude was wild with enthusiasm as 
the orator fairly thundered in power and 
splendor. He looked like a thing immortal 
when he made that speech ; but on this rainy 
day he is rotting in a wet grave about two 
miles from where I write. But what is one 
life where there is a world full of people ! 

Whenever I hear the slow and solemn 
steps of Chopin’s ^‘Funeral March,” I am 
not so much reminded of the exit of one 
mortal from this world as of the death and 
burial of humanity itself. There they come, 
the hoary giants, marching down the corridors 
of time toward the generation in which I 
live ; and soon they will stand before it as 
they have stood before every other. The 
entombed and rolling echo of their steps is 
now drowning the petty voices of fames of 
generations that have been, and will soon 
delegate us to the same speechless oblivion. 

You have not long to think of these things 
before you curse God and wish to make your 


A Farrago 


162 

quietus with a bare bodkin. Many a man 
does it ; and many another makes a quietus 
of further effort in life, answering you with, 
What ’s the use ? ” No matter how great his 
effort, no one ever came to anything but a 
corpse ; and except for clinical purposes there 
is not any difference in the value of corpses ; 
and it is scarcely probable that anyone calcu- 
lates the worth of his immortality on that 
basis. 

Scholars seek truth. There is no gain- 
saying what has been said above. It is the 
literal truth. Death is the inevitable crown 
of life ; but whether it be of gold or thorns, 
who shall say ! To know truth is wisdom ; 
but to know truth concocted with much false- 
hood is greater wisdom, has fewer dregs, is 
sweeter, and is all that holds the world 
together. Nothing short of enthusiasm for 
some province* of life’s activity will prevent 
a man from jumping into the black abyss. 
One must chase a phantom — and vigorously 
too! — to get the most out of life. 

I know a young lady who believes that it 


In the House of Content 7 nent 163 

is the goal of happiness, and even of import- 
ance in the world, to be a school teacher. 
This is absolute truth to her, and the source 
of much happiness. Yet not one in a thous- 
and would agree to give the school teacher 
so prominent a place. She will be happy 
and useful with this misconception, and unless 
she change it for another, she will be miser- 
able and useless without it. 

A friend who was married recently tried 
to convince me that his wife is the sweetest 
woman on earth. Now this fellow’s chances 
for happiness are good so long as he is able 
to house this fairy tale under his scalp and 
this wife under his wing. He is not the 
only person in this world carrying about such 
a delusion. I tried to convince him that 
another lady of my acquaintance had more 
to justify the claims he made for his wife. 
Before the discussion ended, three other 
gentlemen joined, each contending for the 
goddess of his choice. After much useless 
debate, we went our several ways, happier 
for not having been convinced. I have a 


A Farrago 


164 

notion that there is nothing greater than 
to be a writer of interesting books. I know 
well enough that this is not true ; but I don’t 
like to argue against it, for so much pleasure 
and interest in life for me depends upon 
soberly believing it. 

It is difficult enough for some persons to 
establish for themselves this kind of private 
truth. Sometimes it is the shabbiness of the 
clothing on one’s back, the pains in one’s 
stomach, or the needs of one’s children that 
make the price of vegetables, cloth, and 
similar commodities a source of pleasant 
absorption. It is much better to have 
enthusiasm for the dry goods business than 
for nothing at all. A friend tells me that 
there is nothing so well adapted to give one 
enthusiasm for some sort of action as the 
necessity of supporting a wife and children ; 
that this is no unimportant argument in favor 
of marriage; and that it keeps nonsense out 
of men’s heads, and make them play a less 
giddy and dangerous tone on the harp of daily 
life. In the face of Tafxdv 6 fieXXwv eh 


In the House of Contentment 165 

fjLCTdvoLav epx^raL ” and Le pays du mariage 
a cela de particulier, que les etrangers ont 
envie de I’habiter, et les habitants naturels 
voudroient en etre exiles/' and similar state- 
ments all the way from Menander to Mon- 
taigne and long before and after both, I 
wonder if my friend was telling the truth. 

Not one person in a thousand is a harmless 
idler, or knows how to take rest. Leisure 
is a necessity for the development of art ; but 
also an ingredient in anarchy. It is harder 
to get pleasure out of continued idleness than 
out of continued work. One may have too 
much time as well as too little. When one 
has nothing to do, he is likely to attempt a 
quarrel with God concerning the mistakes in 
the construction of the universe. If such a 
one's time were put to planting corn or mak- 
ing clothing, perhaps it would be better for 
the rest of us, even though he handed down 
from his swivel chair a beautifully bound 
and printed treatise on ‘‘The False Episte- 
mological Postulates of the Transcendental 
Aesthetic as a Propaedeutic to the Transcen- 


A Farrago 


1 66 

dental Logic.’' Books on philosophy are 
important to the world, of course, and so are 
well-regulated grocery stores and honest 
lawyers. If one, therefore, have enthusiasm 
in his travelling bag, let him keep it ! Be 
not an image breaker, for perhaps there are 
nothing but images. 

Old people ought to be careful not to dis- 
enchant youth of its rainbow gleams ; but 
they are continually doing it. ‘^When you 
get as old as I am, then you will see thus 
and so,” says the old man, with not enough 
juice in his crusty memory to recall how 
much joy he got out of courting his wife 
fifty years ago (to say nothing of marrying 
her !). It is better for a crowd of young 
people to laugh and shout than to sit down, 
as did Jonathan Edwards, and resolve every 
day of their lives to meditate on death, the 
probable length of time required for every 
vestige of their memory to disappear from 
the earth, whether in fact life is immortal or 
whether at death the curtain falls never to 
rise again. If we were standing on a high 


In the House of Contentment 1 67 

mountain overlooking the earth, and if our 
lives were without end, then we should say to 
the laughing, shouting crowd of young people, 
“Why make ye merry, to-morrow ye die, 
and the next day are grinning skeletons.’' 
But we are not on a high mountain overlook- 
ing the earth, and our lives are not eternal ; 
and perhaps, the young people would n’t 
derive much benefit, after all, in walking 
about to the end of their days with frozen 
faces. When we contemplate the eternal, 
then are our minds filled with serious ques- 
tions ; and then, according to our heart’s re- 
ligion, do we become melancholy or hopeful, 
No one need try to delude his neighbors 
that he knows what is after death. Let the 
schoolmistress, therefore, work for her school, 
the husband for his wife, and let every other 
child of the world take to himself some false- 
hood. Let everyone think his sphere the 
greatest, let him work it with his might, and 
though it never bring him to his gilded city, 
it has him housed all the while in the best 
thing that this world can give. 


i68 


A Farrago 


Many are the delusions of youth. That is 
why it is so rich in happiness. But these 
fall away like husks from the grain ; yet in 
prudent persons they will not all fall away; 
and from those that are withered and juiceless 
others will spring, perhaps no less delusive, 
yet having more apparent truth. 

One can hardly ever realize the greatest 
happiness in the mere development of him- 
self, for there is the ever-present conscious- 
ness of inevitable decay ; and one no sooner 
gains a point than he seems to lose another; 
but one may find pleasing absorption in the 
perfection of an institution which survives 
his demise and abides by the effort of others, 
giving even a kind of immortality. There is 
no denying that there is much genuine happi- 
ness in the pursuit of some aim ; and how- 
ever false the aims of others may seem, it is 
well for us to hold fast to a definite fancy, 
and take exercise in so primary a lesson as 
work. Arbeit ist der Tugend Quell.” (I 
wish I never forgot this.) 


AT COMMENCEMENT TIME 


That was the last day of the royal lineT 

Ovid. 




AT COMMENCEMENT TIME 


I WENT back to the old college from 
which I graduated some years ago. It 
was commencement time, which always brings 
back some of the ‘‘old boys and girls’" to 
their alma mater home. There were some 
whom the world seemed to have prospered in 
worldly goods, for they were well dressed and 
had some of the dignity which wealth gives ; 
others had been prospered in piety, which 
their long hair, spectacles, Prince Albert 
coats, and a certain submissive crook of their 
clerical shoulders manifested ; still others 
seemed to have neither the advantage of 
wealth nor the goodness that long hair and 
spectacles represent, yet in private conver- 


1/2 


A Farrago 


sation they too showed some gains, a gentle 
soul, a pet theory, a good wife at home, or a 
bright boy — some admirable entities, to be 
sure. 

Many of my more particular friends had 
changed. I say ‘‘many” — no, I mean all. 
In my college days there was a charming girl 
I used to see occasionally, who never had 
fewer than three sweethearts during a college 
year. Her time is now spent in taking 
care of three rosy little second editions of 
herself. In her great hope and greater 
imagination she was to be married to a 
millionaire, but is now happy as the wife of 
a photographer. 

There used to be a young gentleman with 
us who was very proud of his beautiful hair. 
It was always parted with the exactness of a 
restaurant pie, and combed and curled accord- 
ing to the latest style. It was the envy of 
the boys and the idol of the girls — that is, the 
hair, not the fellow. But alas ! either Provi- 
dence is cruel, or the style of hair dressing is 
greatly changed. 


At Commencement Time 


173 


“ Dicebam, medicare tnos desiste capillos : 

Tingere quam possis jam tibi nulla coma est.” 

It is parted now from ear to ear, running 
down in the back two inches below his hat 
band, with not enough long hairs on either 
side to allow of an attempt to raise them to 
the patch of sickly stubbles on the other^ 
exhibiting a florid scalp as irregular in topog- 
raphy as Yellow Stone Park and as barren 
as Sahara. To be bald and to have a badly 
shaped pate is like having an ugly soul and 
no wealth. Let a man be as poor as he 
will, if he has a beautiful soul, he may still 
have much happiness. Thus while hair often 
deceives us about the shape of the outside of 
people’s heads, money often deceives us about 
the shape of the inside. 

Of all the changes time had wrought none 
were greater than the titles of some of my 
old friends. These were a few of their names 
among the boys in college. Hub, Gag, Tinnie, 

Bishop, and Kiddie. Now it is Mr. ^ 

A. M., chemist ; Mr. , Ph. B., LL. B., 

capitalist ; Professor , A. M., professor 


174 


A Farrago 


of Latin. These foolish, insipid, loud and 
intolerant college boys, who made the lives 
of the citizens in the little college town 
insecure and who, all the people predicted, 
would come to nothing good — these very 
boys are stalwart, manly men. I have an 
idea it is not good to be precocious, it makes 
one so liable to be childish in old age. 

There was a time when all these dissimilar 
elements which this commencement gathers 
together were one. They studied in the same 
libraries, played the same pranks, raved over 
the same '‘profs,’* went in the same society, 
and at last received their diplomas from the 
same " prexy’s” hand. But they are one 
now only for a while, then each will return 
to the nest that circumstances and his ability 
have allowed him to build. 

A class from back in the seventies had a 
reunion. It struck me that the women 
looked better than the men. Most of the 
men were gray, and somewhat haggard of 
countenance. The gentle and sympathetic 
expression of the college lad was replaced by 


At Commencement Time 


175 


the marks of many a battle for health, wealth, 
and honor — perhaps in some instances for 
only a humble living. Hand in hand they 
gathered around a large stone they had pre- 
sented to their alma mater many years ago, 
and sang their old songs, and gave their old 
yells. There was genuine pathos in this 
spectacle. There was meaning in every face, 
as if their souls were being again renewed, 
and as if they were taking strength again 
from their mother’s breast to live for honor 
and for right. The last notes of the song 
stopped, the united hands fell ; for a mo- 
ment no one moved or said anything, none 
laughed, and but few smiled. It was twenty 
years since they had sung these songs by that 
rock, it was a milestone on life’s way, a look- 
ing backward, perhaps for some the last. 

I said that the women looked better than 
the men. They looked fresher and younger, 
and their actions and countenances betrayed 
more of the college girl than the men’s did 
of the college boy. They stood quiet, and 
seemed rather to be moved by the men’s 


176 


A Farrago 


emotions than by memory. If this was a 
representation of the average college woman, 
and if the women who took the arms of the 
men after the ceremonies were ended repre- 
sented the average college man's wife, it is 
not the worst thing in the world for a woman 
to go to college, or at least to marry a college 
man. These women evidently preside over 
good, though perhaps in some instances 
modest, households. No doubt the women 
of the upper classes fare best in this 
world. If there is any abuse in this class, 
and certainly there is, the men are the unfort- 
unates. Many a wealthy man labors from 
morning till night, from one year to another, 
without any suggestion of a vacation, while 
his wife and sons and daughters have a good 
time spending the money without even so 
much as appreciation. Many a man is work- 
ing himself to death not only for his sons 
and daughters, but his sons and daughters- 
in-law, and their children and children's 
children. Generous, yellow-skinned, gray- 
bearded man, what love is this that is so sac- 


At Commencement Time 


177 


rificing ! The women who have the most to 
bear in this life are the wives in the lower 
classes, and yet there are none more faithful. 
There seemed to be none of these present at 
this commencement. If there were any 
anywhere, perhaps they did n’t come. But I 
doubt if there were any. 

In the evening I attended a meeting of 
the Greek-letter fraternity of which I am a 
member. The active members assembled 
were from seventeen to twenty-four years of 
age. There were about fourteen altogether. 
After most of the business had been disposed 
of (and these fellows have lots of it — you 
would be surprised !), I noticed that a rest- 
less feeling began to seize a few of the mem- 
bers. They began to whisper to one another; 
when presently a very proper and finely- 
dressed member of about nineteen arose and 
said, *‘Mr. President, I move that Brother 
Cooper ‘set ’em up.’” The motion was 
promptly seconded by a member on the other 
side of the house. The President asked if 
the question should be put. Presently an- 


178 


A Farrago 


other member arose. This was Cooper. 
He did not seemed pleased, and began to 
argue the injustice of compelling him to do 
this thing. He said that he had always 
been generous, and was now hard up, that 
his graduation was costing him a great 
deal, and that he ought to be excused. He 
stated further that it was customary in the 
fraternity for the under-classmen to set 
'em up " to the Seniors upon graduation, 
and that he being a Senior, ought, of right, 
to be treated to refreshments by them. 

By this time, three or four of the other 
members were on the floor, and there 
were cries for the question. Several other 
speeches were made — all very earnest, not 
the least bogus or insincere. This was 
indeed a peculiar spectacle. Here were 
thirteen men who had the notion that they 
wanted ice cream and cigars and other deli- 
cacies to tickle the palate, and decided that 
Cooper should pay. What could Cooper do ? 
He beat them in every argument ; but they 
had the numbers. The honorable president. 


At Commencement Time 1/9 

who by this time had become pretty hungry 
for refreshments, closed the debate in the 
middle of one of Coopers speeches, and 
called for the vote. The unfortunate brother 
was compelled to spend five dollars for no 
fault of his whatever. 

Upon inquiry, I learned that there was 
no grudge against Cooper ; but that the 
caprice of the majority might at any time 
seize upon anyone, and subject him to 
whatever it chose. I learned that on one 
occasion the merciless majority passed a 
measure compelling one of the members 
either to make the highest grade in his 
French class or not to see his best girl on 
Sunday nights for seventeen consecutive 
weeks. The fellow made the grade ! 

After the meeting had closed, and the 
refreshments had been served, instead of 
receiving thanks, Cooper was grabbed by 
five or six of the others, and ruthlessly 
bumped against the wall. O college days ! 

In this world there not always comes a 
time of paying up, of compensation, or of 


1 8 o A Farrago 

paying back, if you will. But I doubt 
whether the college student does not get 
even ” for so little as the slightest offence. 
There comes, just before the day of receiv- 
ing diplomas, a very important day to the 
graduating class. This is a day on which 
old debts, old grudges, and old spites are 
made level, which could not perhaps be 
made level at any other time. The student 
cannot well tell the professor that he is an 
old fossil before he has passed his examina- 
tions ; or say to the president that his policy 
of education is narrow and absurd. On 
class day, which is the name of this day of 
judgment, many graduating classes finally 
set at rest their sense of justice and respon- 
sibility by doing just such things. 

On the class day of this commencement a 

play was given, which said : Professor , 

you are very gallant for an old man ; you 
must not court so lovingly, especially in 

such conspicuous places. Miss , who is 

twenty years your junior. You are an old 
fossil ; and must relieve our eyes of further 


At Commencement Time i8i 

offence by either marrying this woman at 
once, or by doing your courting in the night 
when the moon does n’t shine.” 

To another professor the play said : You 
are a bag of wind. Will you never stop 
talking } Do you not know that you make 
yourself very ridiculous by using so many 
hackney Latin and Greek phrases that you 
have studied in Webster’s Unabridged Dic- 
tionary } We do not believe you understand 
Latin and Greek.” 

To another: ‘‘You are a silly old woman. 
Why don’t you stop your whining and be a 
man.^^ You ought to get married. There 
are plenty of nice girls here. If you can’t 
support one by teaching, get a position for 
which you are better fitted. We recommend 

you to Mr. ’s dry goods store, as a clerk 

in the lace department.” 

To the president was said: “You are very 
good and pious ; but you could be better.” 

The under-classmen were treated to the 
severest blows. The Freshman class, which 
had evidently caused the Seniors much 


i 82 


A Farrago 


trouble during the year, being much stronger 
in numbers, which counts for more than a 
knowledge of the classics and philosophy in 
a rough and tumble fight, received such 
compliments as these: ‘‘Freshmen, you are 
too green ever to hope of becoming ripe. 
The young ladies of your class ought never 
to receive you when you do not wear neckties 
and cuffs, and do not have your hair combed. 
By all means. Freshmen, have your hair cut 
sometime this summer before you go back 
to the farm, else your aunt Maria might think 
we have no barbers here ; and for the sake 
of the college, don't let her cut it, as she did 
just before you came here at the beginning 
of this year. That would be awful. Mr. 

F Y , of your class, owes Mrs. 

Brown fifty cents for washing. Mrs. Brown 
told us that she had done his washing all 
year, and that he had not as yet paid her a 
cent. See that this is paid, or we shall write 
to Y 's father." 

No one escaped against whom this mighty 
class had any feeling. Every one who had 


At Commencement Time 


183 


been scathed had to take these things good- 
humoredly. Some of the professors seemed 
bored, but that only made the spectacle more 
ridiculous. It was discretion to smile at 
one’s own head lying beside the executioner’s 
block. Some even laughed, and got not a 
little enjoyment out of it. There was no 
use to cry, or lose one’s temper, or try to 
stop the proceedings. It was Class Day, a 
traditional day, and all seemed agreed that 
there was no higher power than the gradu- 
ates. 

There is perhaps no time in a college 
student's life when more mingled feelings 
arise than the day on which he receives his 
diploma. There is joy and there is sorrow. 
For many a long year he has toiled patiently 
for this great event, for the time when he 
might consider himself qualified to take an 
active part in the world’s affairs. But alas ! 
when he begins to question himself, he finds 
that he does not wish to go out into the world, 
much less mingle with its coarseness and 
philistinism, and be compelled to take inter- 


184 A Farrago 

est in what to him resembles the ooze of a 
malarious swamp more than his notion of 
civilization. The tie that binds the friends 
of youth is to be broken forever. The many 
petty but pleasant concerns of their past lives 
are to be crushed out of his mind by the 
sterner facts of life, responsibility, labor and 
subordination. He has been a monarch, but 
is soon to become a slave. His friends who 
remain will watch his career ; but to them he 
will be like one dead. If he be successful, 
his deeds may seem like the doings of angels ; 
but his voice will be heard only from afar; 
and after all he will be in reality still as 
common a man as those he left behind, whose 
voices will come to him as faint and unfamiliar 
as his comes to them. His graduation is 
now a thing realized, and like most every 
other realization in this world, it does not 
give as much happiness as the striving that 
it costs. Filled with ideals and idols, he 
knows not whither to direct his footsteps, lest 
some one of the selfish and unmindful crowds 
should elbow his plaster of Paris to the pave- 


At Commencement Time 


I8S 


ment ; and there he would be left to weep 
over his fallen Madonna, shattered into a 
thousand pieces. It is a sad day — this Com- 
mencement Day — for these young fellows. 
To the young ladies there are fewer paths 
open, consequently less bewilderment con- 
cerning their future. But the separation of 
friends is perhaps more keenly felt by them 
than by the young gentlemen. 

Many a college graduate asks himself on 
this memorable day, as he asks himself again 
and again through life’s long journey, Was 
it worth the while } ” This is not as open a 
question to many as it is to me. But how- 
ever it is answered, and however much the 
college man has yet to learn after he leaves 
his alma mateVy one thing is true : it is glori- 
ous to have gone to college; and if rightly 
directed, one’s life may retain at least some 
of that lustre, and shed it upon those whom 
he meets in the many highways and byways 
whither he shall go. 


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A FEW FIRST IMPRESSIONS OF 
HARVARD 


“ The summer dawn is breaking 
On Auburn's tangled bower s^ 

The golden light is waking 
On Harvard's ancient towers." 

Holmes. 


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A FEW FIRST IMPRESSIONS 
OF HARVARD 

JAPANESE lecturing in his own 



country on American colleges said that 
Harvard was a place where young men played 
foot-ball, and on rainy days read books. 
Though in the science of rhetoric we call this 
a hyperbole, and in common parlance, a false- 
hood, it has nevertheless a germ of truth. 

During the first few days before college 
opens, one may stand anywhere about the 
buildings and see scores and scores of young 
men, arms akimbo, carrying, after the English 
fashion, bundles of all sorts of sticks. 

So far as I know the English carry only 
canes and umbrellas ; but these Harvard 
students carry canes, umbrellas, fencing foils, 


A Farrago 


190 

guns, tennis rackets, and almost every other 
implement known to athletic sport. One 
begins to wonder whether Harvard is a uni- 
versity or a picnic ground. All these instru- 
ments, in connection with pipes, which are 
smoked to strengthen the jaws, but more 
often strengthen the breath, are used to 
develop the body. 

One is reminded of the wealthy farmer 
who, when asked if he were going to send his 
son to college replied, No, John never did, 
and I s'pose never will care anything for 
games.” 

Nevertheless, however much college stu- 
dents may be criticised for time spent in 
athletic sports, one beneficial result is inevi- 
table. The time when one may not lay 
claim to the title of scholar unless he have 
pallid lips, sunken cheeks, poor lungs, and a 
torpid liver, is passing away. Athletics is 
the best medicine for all ailments, except 
toothache, love sickness and other kindred 
ailments. Tennis when played with a young 
lady, is even good for love sickness. 


A Few First Impressions of Harvard 1 9 1 

A very marked peculiarity of Harvard 
students is that a large percentage wear 
glasses. Specs, of some sort, it seems, are 
as essential to good taste as the latest styles 
in clothing. Aside from correcting optical 
defects, glasses keep the dust from one’s 
eyes, for in New England there are at times 
very high winds, so that those who wear 
them for style may, to some extent at least, 
quiet their consciousness of pride. 

The pipe habit has a very strong hold on 
the Harvard student. On endeavoring to 
find why pipe smoking should be more in 
vogue here than at other colleges, I was 
told by an under-classman that mosquitoes 
are very abundant in these regions in 
summer, and that in winter the severe cold 
obliges one to carry as much heat as possible 
about the body. Thus the whole thing is 
reduced to a scientific basis. What more 
could one ask.^ 

In Cambridge some statues dot the beau- 
tiful campuses, and hundreds of paintings 
hang about the walls. In the Common there 


192 


A Farrago 


stands a bronze figure of John Bridge. No 
doubt this gentleman was worthy of a 
statue — all good men are. But when I 
found that it was given to the city by Mr. 
Samuel J. Bridge, a descendant of the gen- 
tleman thus immortalized, I was reminded of 
an ambitious merchant in Saginaw, Michigan, 
who erected a statue of himself in the most 
conspicuous place in that city. The Cam- 
bridge affair is more delicate ; but does it 
not savor a little of the same thing.? There 
is more art talk in Cambridge and in Boston 
to the square foot than there is to the square 
mile in Chicago — perhaps more real art too. 
‘‘But what is art.? It is not utility,’' says 
the Chicagoan, forgetting all the while that 
statues make fine loafing places, convenient 
match-strikers, and excellent whetstones for 
chronic whittlers. No great city could think 
of having a poetic or romantic riot, unless 
the rioters gathered beneath the bronze or 
marble image of some historic personage. 
To say that John Jones was killed in the 
Haymarket does not make heroic music 


A Few First Impressions of Harvard 193 

murmur in the ear like, He fell beneath 
Saint Gaudens’s Lincoln/’ Great romance 
requires history. 

There are many paintings, too, in this old 
site of learning. In the long run, paintings 
are cheap : the walls of some of the store- 
houses of art have not been papered for 
years, the portraits of forgotten saints and 
statesmen, of mayors, Puritan farmers, and 
school trustees affording ample decoration. 
This is a fact not yet appreciated in some 
parts of our country. In some of the dusty 
and smoky centers of population, the art of 
the easel ought to thrive more luxuriantly. 

I have referred several times to the young 
men who go to Harvard as students.” This 
is a word one seldom or never hears. It is 
always the ‘‘Harvard man.” The word 
“student ” seems to carry with it the idea of 
infancy or youth or immaturity, and every- 
thing of this sort is spurned by the devotees 
at this classic shrine. I think the “ Harvard 
man” expression much better. These young 
men are a manly lot of fellows. In my 


194 


A Farrago 


sojourns in other college towns, I have been 
frequently accosted by boarding-house keepers 
and washer-women, either to pay somebody 
else’s debt or to persuade an erring brother 
to pay his own. Whether my countenance 
is that of a debtor or a corrector of public 
wrongs, I have not as yet decided. I am free 
to confess, to the credit of Harvard College, 
that in all my stay there, I was never accosted 
by a single washer-woman. 

Another expression common about Cam- 
bridge and Boston, and through all New 
England, is the Commonwealth of Massa- 
chusetts.” Since we have so many states, 
it is not an unwelcome variation ; but no one 
revels more in this expression than the 
Bostonian himself. 

One of the greatest treats for the Har- 
vard student is Boston, the city in which the 
sun rises and sets, the Hub of the Uni- 
verse,” where bootblacks read Ibsen, and 
servant girls recite Shakespeare and dote on 
Browning. You will scarcely find people 
anywhere who are more contented with their 


A Few First Impressions of Harvard 195 

surroundings than the residents of Boston. 
If any disease really flourishes it is anglo- 
mania. It is little or no part of their 
education to know whether Indianapolis is 
the capital of North Dakota or Kentucky. 
They are not extremely wealthy ; but very 
critical in matters of science and art. 

In Boston one may believe what one likes 
with impunity, if reason can be given why 
judgment should not be rendered against 
him. The theatre is loved like the church, 
and is quite as great a source of moral in- 
spiration. The city government is in the 
hands of the good people, and there is law 
and order. 

A Bostonian is as proud of the history of 
his town as a small boy is of his first long 
trousers. I was shown the Boston Common 
one day, where the boys of the Revolution 
skated. The friend who was showing me 
about said that it was the very same pond, 
and an enthusiastic gentleman maintained 
that it was the identical water. 

The women are not so voluptuous as in the 


196 


A Farrago 


South and West ; but they have very great 
intellectual interest. They are full of ideas 
and entertaining talk, which interest the men 
quite as much as the physical buoyancy other 
women hold continually in evidence. They 
have a charming air of independence. In the 
street-car they can stand as well as the men ; 
and in the drawing-room they know how to 
please without resort to fawning or en- 
treaty. 

All these treasures of Boston a Harvard 
student may enjoy, if he have the cunning to 
find, and the ability to be worthy of them. 
If he have artistic instincts, he will find 
knights of the brush, the key-board, and wet 
clay. It is much as it is in Paris, with 
less Bohemianism and much more respect- 
ability. 

There are all sorts of organizations about 
the university for the advancement of learn- 
ing, and people are judged more by breeding 
and learning than by money. It has been 
so from the beginning. Nearly everyone is 
interested in the beauty that decorates the 


A Few First Impressions of Harvard 197 

world, and the music and books that charm 
it. Instead of being shown the millionaires, 
the scholars are pointed out. This is a 
pleasant contrast in a land where wealth 
seems to be the only thing worth striving 
for. One is shown where the great and wise 
have lived and labored, and the historic places 
connected with their memory. West Boston 
Bridge was pointed out to me as the bridge 
Longfellow had in mind in his poem ‘^The 
Bridge.” One day, coming back to Cam- 
bridge, I walked over this bridge, much to 
my sorrow. There was a high wind, and my 
hat blew off into the water. I recalled, 
with certain modifications, those meaning 
lines : — 

Among the long black rafters 
The wavering shadows lay, 

And the current that came from the ocean 
Seemed to lift and bear my hat away. 

How often, oh ! how often, 

I wished that the ebbing tide 
Had not borne my hat on its bosom 
O’er the ocean wild and wide. 


198 


A Farrago 


For I was very cold and restless, 

And my head had little hair, 

And the hat that was taken from me 
Was all that I had to wear. 

After walking many squares with reverent 
uncovered head, I arrived at my room and 
began to doctor a severe cold, which with 
many pleasant recollections of Harvard Col- 
lege, I carried away several weeks after. 


PROSE-POETRY AND SYMBOLISM 

“// is a little piece ofprose^ 

Inform and style excelling; 

But what it means no man knowsy 
It isy indeedy pastellingP 

Chap-Book. 

















PROSE-POETRY AND SYMBOLISM 


A ll lovers — not sweetheart lovers, for 
this is no tale of woe or wooing — of 
good literature must certainly have watched 
with interest the trend of polite letters in 
this latter part of the century. The end of 
this century has come to be called decadent. 
This has been due to the everlasting revolt 
which the modern novel, more than anything 
else, has made against the social order of the 
day. The one word that characterizes most 
nearly correctly the theme of the modern 
novel is sociology.’' Nearly every new book 
(and especially those by women) has some 
new fault to find with the relations which 
make the world of mankind an organic whole. 
I am not one of those who look disparagingly 


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A Farrago 


upon this class of literature as a whole. 
Certainly Ibsen, who is perhaps the greatest 
thinker among these, has shown an insight 
into the social relations of to-day which, it 
seems to me, no thoughtful person can dispar- 
age. But the general cry is that modern 
literature is continually pulling down our 
time-honored institutions, and offers no 
substitute or remedy ; it is destructive, 
decadent. 

But decadence has not only taken place in 
the subject-matter of literature, but also in 
its form, is the cry of the critic. The drama, 
with many dramatists, has lost its technique ; 
the scene is changed every five minutes, and 
there are all sorts of characters ( many with- 
out moral character at all) instead of the 
stock characters of time-honored dramatic 
form. Some recent reputable novels are 
entirely without form (and are void, too). 
They run on and on, and ‘‘kick” and “kick” 
until the writer gets tired, then the characters 
are killed or get married ( which is nearly as 
bad ) and the novel is ended. 


Prose-Poetry and Symbolism 203 

Poetry is now written in prose ; alas ! who 
would have thought it ! Thus the critic cries, 
‘‘decadence, decadence everywhere.” 

It is of this latter form of decadence that I 
shall babble a bit. The most liberal definition 
of a poem is, I should say, passion on paper. 
Now, the only reason that some passion is 
written in verse is to give it an additional 
force to reproduce itself in the reader, for 
certain passions seem to associate well with 
rhyme and rhythm ; but, it seems to me, not 
all. There are feelings as formless as a 
muddy street; for example, terror. Mere 
want of form seems to heighten this emotion. 
Why then versify it } I can see no artistic 
reason. Thus, I think it may be truthfully 
said that some feelings are more effective in 
prose. This is what the prose-poem is, or 
should be. The form a thing is written in 
does not characterize the kind of literature it 
is. Some paragraphs in prose are very 
poetical, and some “ things ” in verse are very 
prosaic. 

Closely allied to prose-poetry is symbol- 


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ism, another manifestation, according to the 
decadent critic, of the degeneracy of ‘‘the 
end of the century literature/’ Maurice 
Maeterlinck is perhaps the greatest modern 
symbolist. Symbolism in art is where the 
production — book, picture, statue, or any 
other product of the fine arts — tells some- 
thing in a new language, that is, implies and 
suggests a thought which it does not speak 
out. It was the highest type of symbolism 
when Christ “ called a little child unto Him, 
and set him in the midst of them (the 
disciples ) and said : ‘ Verily, I say unto you, 
except ye become as little children, ye shall 
not enter into the kingdom of heaven.’” 
So in each of Maeterlinck’s dramas there is 
something told which is not said, there is a 
meaning lurking therein. 

But Maeterlinck is more than a symbolist, 
he is a poet. The same dramas which speak 
so forcibly through the symbol are also 
great poems — poems of terror in which that 
emotion is aroused with the subtlety of 
genius. Though the dramas are written in 


Prose-Poetry and Symbolism 205 

prose they are as poetic in the realm of the 
terrible as anything in any modern literature. 
They are prose-poems as well as dramatic 
symbols. 

It is generally understood that these two 
forms of literature are quite distinct ; but I 
do not see how that can be. There may be 
poetry without a symbol ; but hardly a sym- 
bol without poetry, so long as the symbol is 
literature in the restricted sense. The 
meaning of the symbol must somehow be 
made manifest; and it is invariably done 
through the emotional effect produced either 
in a character or directly in the reader. It 
is therefore no less a poem than a symbol. 

I have attempted below a bit of this kind 
of literature, the symbol prose-poem, which 
is given, of course, with due apologies. The 
reader must try to look at the following 
from an artistic point of view ( if it be not 
sacrilegious to call it art), as a specimen of, 
or kind of introduction to, that tendency in 
the art of letters which has been so ingeniously 
developed by Maurice Maeterlinck, Bliss 


2o6 a Farrago 

Carman, Gilbert Parker, William Sharp, and 
others. 

$ 

THE OLD MAN’S ANSWER 

‘‘Everyone has a right to his own opinion 
— that is true,” said the old man. 

“ Of course he has, by that sentence you 
show that you are a philosopher. But these 
things are nothing to me now.” Then, more 
gently, he added, “they were once; but when 
youth goes, so does credulity.” 

The old man said nothing, but turned 
his kindly old face, nearly hidden in a snowy 
beard, toward his companion. It was a look 
of which one could use the word venerable. 
His eye had no fire, but oceans of compas- 
sion and affection. 

The younger man said : “ To be honest, — 
and I can be so with you, — what do we 
know } Here is the world, with its history — 
what a history ! — every epoch brings new 
morals, new religion, a new God. To-day we 
ridicule what we worshiped yesterday. To 


Prose-Poetry and Symbolism 207 

what shall we pray to-morrow ? But why 
do I speak about these things ? he con- 
tinued in a low and hopeless voice, as he 
drew his glasses from his eyes and the lines 
disappeared but slowly from his forehead. 

The old man was not looking at him now, 
but sat meditatively with his pure white 
hands folded on his lap ; his snowy hair, fall- 
ing over his temples, nearly touched his 
shoulders, now bent with years. ‘'No, speak 
on,” said he in the tremor of age and gentle- 
ness. But for the settling of the waning 
embers in the great, old fire-place, and the 
roar of an occasional gust of wind which 
played havoc with the falling snow, there was 
silence in the room — but not in the heart of 
one. 

The younger man’s brow was knitted 
again. “Who is right } ” he began ; “to-day 
from ten thousand pulpits nearly as many 
doctrines come. Each one knows he is right, 
and hell will get those who disbelieve. Are 
any of them right } How the mysteries of 
the Bible fade in the searchlight of science ! 


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A Farrago 


— fire will always burn ! death is eternal ! 
Yet it is pleasant to lie to the soul; I have 
done it, but cannot now.’' His lip curled 
as he spoke this last sentence. It was not 
the face of pompous ignorance, for that is 
easily brushed away. He had pursued with 
ardent care the systems of thought which 
would reason God and immortality into the 
world, he had had a light in his breast, he 
had had hopes ; but years had passed, and 
he was bereft now. It was, therefore, the 
grimace of a mind which had gone to the 
limits of knowledge, and had recoiled from 
the eternal hopeless night beyond. It was 
the heart terror which sooner or later draws 
a pall over the heart itself — and that is 
resignation. 

Only the early gray glimmer of winter 
evening now lighted the room. The old 
man was still silent ; his face showed the 
compassion of his noble soul. A little sun- 
beam, his grandchild, was sitting in his lap. 
He was smoothing her golden hair as her 
eyes looked into his face. Here in this chair 


Prose-Poetry and Symbolism 209 


sat the last two of them left on earth, yet 
they did not despair. 

Grandpapa, grandpapa, what makes it 
snow } asked the little gold head, wistfully. 

The old man only pressed the little darling 
to his breast and she understood. 

’ $ 


WHAT THE NIGHT SAID 

So you are going away,” she said pen- 
sively. ‘‘ I am sorry. I shall miss you — we 
have been much together. How long the 
time will seem ! ” 

Outside it was night and winter, the wind 
howled about the house, scattering the dingy 
snow off roof and knoll o'er the desolate 
frozen streets ; the tall stark trees creaked 
against the bitter blasts — without ’twas 
night and winter. 

go to-night,” said a voice dead with 
resignation — to-night.” 

We have known each other so long, you 


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A Farrago 


have come so often, that I cannot think how 
'twill be. Why don’t you stay.? You have 
everything here — friends, home, hope. 
What else do you wish .? The desolate world 
cannot give you more. Yet you will go .? ” 
The wind blew, the night grew darker, 
the windows rattled in the casement. 

I go to-night,” the deep, dead voice 
said — ‘‘to-night.” 

“ I cannot understand — was our associa- 
tion but a passing comradeship .? Last sum- 
mer did we not walk the woods together.? 
were we not happy .? you often told me so. 
Oh, stay! Think of the future I You will 
not go ! You will not go 1 ” 

The door opened, the wind still howled, 
the trees still creaked, the night was darker, 
and the dead voice only said : — 

“ I go to-night.” 

Into the dark, with outstretched arms, she 
cried, “ Oh, stay ! Oh, stay ! I cannot 
understand I I cannot understand I ” The 
night wind moaned, “Cannot — cannot under- 
stand .? ” 


Prose-Poetry and Symbolism 


21 1 


THE LIGHT WITHIN 

It is a night in November, not cold, 
but chill ; a dim mysterious twilight blurs 
the blackness of the night. The place is not 
far from a bridge, under which the glistening 
water quivers in the light shining from the 
windows of a few house-boats on the bank 
and a dim signal-lantern hanging from the 
middle pier. 

Clumsy footsteps are heard in the distance 
coming rapidly towards the river ; everything 
else is still. The footsteps become louder 
and louder and presently a low-set, heavily- 
built man emerges from the dark. His head, 
covered with a slouched hat pulled down upon 
his forehead, turns furtively to the right and 
left. He suddenly stops and looks about. 

Coming up to the railroad track on an in- 
clined path from the house-boats a tall, 
slender man is seen. He reaches the grade, 
stands for a moment, stretches himself and 
yawns, then saunters towards the bridge. 


212 

• 

A Farrago 

They meet, 
something. 

The short man mumbles 

What 

TALL MAN. 

( Nervously.) 

SHORT MAN. 

How far is it to the bridge.^ 


TALL MAN. 


Not very far. ( Pomting to the signal 
light.) Where you see that lantern. 

SHORT MAN. 

The lantern } 

TALL MAN. 

Yes, that is the middle of the bridge. 

SHORT MAN. 

You know these parts ? 


Yes. 

TALL MAN. 


SHORT MAN. 


Where is the river deepest ? 


Prose-Poetry and Symbolism 213 


TALL MAN. 

Beneath the lantern. 


SHORT MAN. 

( Repeating) Beneath the lantern. Would 
one strike bottom there } 


• TALL MAN. 

From where } 


SHORT MAN. 

From the bridge. 

TALL MAN. 

No, for there is a whirlpool there. To 
jump from the bridge is death. 

SHORT MAN. 

(^Hurrying towards the bridge) Beneath 
the lantern is death. Beneath the lantern 
is death. 

TALL MAN. 

( Becoming animated of a sudden) Wait ! 
Wait! 


( The short man stops.) 


214 


A Farrago 


TALL MAN. 

( Approaching^f Where are you going 

SHORT MAN. 

To the lantern where the whirlpool is. 
Why do you call me back ^ 

TALL MAN. 

The watch will see you ; he will drive you 
back. No one is allowed on the bridge at 
night. It is very dangerous. 

SHORT MAN. 

Then I will go. What do I care for the 
watch } 

TALL MAN. 

But you would not murder, too } 

( There is a moment’s silence. A distant 
tocsin begins to strike.) 

TALL MAN. 

( Counting the strokes . ) One — two — three 

— four — five — six — seven — eight — nine 

— ten — eleven. Soon the watch will put out 
the light and go home, when the last train is 


Prose-Poetry and Symbolism 215 


heard to whistle ; then you can go to the 
middle of the bridge, where the lantern hangs, 
above the whirlpool. 


SHORT MAN. 

And till then ? 


TALL MAN. 

( Starting down the path 1 ) Till then come 
with me. 

( It is black night now. They feel their 
way down the path. The lights in the house- 
boats are out. They have descended, and 
walk along a steep bank, beneath which the 
river splashes the boom-logs.) 


SHORT MAN. 

{Stopping and looking down) Is the river 
deep here.? I hear splashing — what is it.? 


TALL MAN. 

Boom-logs. Come 1 


SHORT MAN. 

One could not reach the water here, then .? 


2I6 


A Farrago 


TALL MAN. 

No. Come ! 


(They reach the brink and enter a house- 
boat.) 

TALL MAN. 

Sit down. 


SHORT MAN. 

It is very dark. 


TALL MAN. 

Yes, the candle has burned out. We 
must not speak loud ; it is time for sleep. 


SHORT MAN. 

Who will awake } 


TALL MAN. 

{Ignoring the question) And to-night you 
would end it all } 


SHORT MAN. 

Yes, to-night. 


TALL MAN. 

Why to-night ? 


Prose-Poetry and Symbolism 217 


SHORT MAN. 

Why not to-night } I belong nowhere. 
There is little happiness in this world. Hap- 
piness is a state of mind which none but 
fools and children enjoy. The moment 
thought enters into life, that moment the 
inevitable tragedy of the world appears. 

To think is to see the inconsistency of all 
things. 

TALL MAN. 

Why think } 

SHORT MAN. 

( With a cynical chucklei) That is it. 
How can one who is capable of thought help 
thinking } I have studied at the universities. 
Before I studied, when I was a child, I was 
happy ; but now that I have studied the world 
I see it as it is. The ignorant chase phan- 
toms; that is happiness. The wise cannot 
sufficiently coddle the mind to do this. 

TALL MAN. 

You are wealthy then 1 


2I8 


A Farrago 


SHORT MAN. 

I have a living — my father left it to me. 

TALL MAN. 

What is your business } 

SHORT MAN. 

I have none. 

(There is a short pause). 

SHORT MAN. 

How can the dancers smile when they rep- 
resent so many funerals.^ How can the 
mouth laugh at all when it is soon to be as 
dry as a crust } 


TALL MAN. 

Why think of these things } 

SHORT MAN. 

Are they not true } 


Yes, but — 


TALL MAN. 


Prose-Poetry and Symbolism 219 


SHORT MAN. 

{Interrupting.) I hear chains. Do you 
hear chains rattling.^ 

TALL MAN. 

I hear nothing. 

’ SHORT MAN. 

We are moving. I feel that we are moving. 

TALL MAN. 

{Jumping to his feet) We are moving! 
The boat has broken loose! My God, we 
are lost ! The rapids ! the rapids ! 

SHORT MAN. 

{Calmly.) Now I need not go to the 
middle pier where the water is deepest. We 
will die together. 


TALL MAN. 

{Thrusting open the door.) We are away 
from the shore ! The rapids ! the rapids ! 

(The cry of a child is heard in a corner of 
the boat.) 


220 


A Farrago 


SHORT MAN. 

What is that } 

TALL MAN. 

{Raging.) We are lost ! 

SHORT MAN. 

It is a child’s cry! 

TALL MAN. 

It is my child’s cry! We are lost ! 

SHORT MAN. 

( Groping about and finding a child) A 
child — it is a child ! 

TALL MAN. 

We are upon the rapids! In a moment 
we are lost ! 

SHORT MAN. 

{Lifting the child upon his back) Now I 
have a duty. Thank God. Life ! Life ! 
{Flung ing into the water. ) F ollow ! F ollow ! 

( The water seethes and swirls, the train 
whistles, the light on the bridge is out, and 
it is black night.) 

















